


War Stories

by AmbulanceRobots



Category: Cars (Movies), Planes (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 109,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2042961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbulanceRobots/pseuds/AmbulanceRobots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War stories: a term thrown around fire houses to describe the stories told by personnel of their work experiences. Runs the gamut from funny to frustrating to absolutely wet-blanket downers.</p>
<p>This will be my dumping ground for all things Fire & Rescue, so I will probably add more tags later. The chapters will usually not be posted in chronological order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. War Stories - Ryker

When the Transportation Management Safety Team sent Ryker out to a small, rural airport deep in corn country, he expected something… different than this. He did not take it any less seriously than if he had been dispatched to LAX; all US airports, and patrons of such airstrips, were entitled to the same protection and safety standards as the largest of major hubs. But rural tended to be a bit more routine. He hated that word, but it was true. Smaller planes, without the upkeep insurance of the massive carriers, tended to have accidents more often. Easily handleable, especially without the slow procession through the paperwork of the resident municipality, their law enforcement, and emergency operations. Nothing he hadn’t handled hundreds of times before. And then he had come to this place.

Seventeen years with the TMST had taught him that all kinds of nonsense passed for people’s common sense, but really, putting out a building fire with an entire water tower?

Correction for clarity: _with _the water tower. Tilted the whole thing over onto the fire. Since, clearly, pumping water out of the tank was too easy.__

He inspected the scene as he waited for the airstrip’s (Propwash Junction, his aide supplied) fire suppression team. Damage to one of the building’s supports. A spiky, charred semi-circle that implied a small explosion, unconfirmed until he could locate any melted shrapnel that had been swept away with the wall of water from the tower they had _toppled onto the building! ___

He coughed quietly to correct his thoughts. Anger for something such as this was irrational. Confusion was not. And confusion could happen in a collected and polite manner.

As he let his eyes wander over the rest of his scene (old ratty fire hose, toppled propeller blade from the building’s architecture, burn area, skid marks leading from the airstrip to the scene) his attention was diverted by the sound of someone’s squeaky suspension and old air brakes. He turned, assessed the person before him (correction: still approximately eighty feet away. Reluctant to speak with him. Not unusual), before making a full about face to give him his complete attention.

Ryker set his jaw against a sigh, and allowed himself a moment of pity. The old fire engine had clearly been around since far before his conception, and his aged hide wore the marks and scars of his noble profession proudly. But he was outdated, saddeningly so, and the hoses he carried in his bed had long since passed their regulation retirement age. As had his nozzles, old pump and tiny water tank, and just about the entirety of his being. The freshly painted likeness of the town’s new racing prodigy on the side of the now scrapped water tower was a clear sign to Ryker that, good intentions aside, the old firefighter was out of his league. If a small, one-prop plane had done this, imagine a Leerjet full of racing dignitaries. Ryker’s mind supplied him with the couple dozen possible violations that could result. 

He gently buried his feelings, they could be inspected again privately, and schooled his face to an unreadable sternness. He rolled just close enough to the old rig to ensure his attention. Practice had taught him how to maneuver his bulk to great affect, not quite enough to bully, but it tended to prevent disagreeable things like arguments. It did not, however, appear that this would be a problem this time. Good, then this would not take long.

“Mr. Mayday, I am Ryker of the Transportation Management Safety Team, and I am here to confer with you about the incident involving a fire adjacent to the airstrip at Propwash Junction.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you guys know, I literally squealed during the movie when I saw Ryker. The airport crash investigator is an ARFF? Hell yes. I need more of that in my life. I don't care what for, he needs to show up in Cars/Planes 3. He's the Ultra Magnus of that world.
> 
> *happy flaily wiggly dance*


	2. War Stories - Dynamite, Pinecone & Dipper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because ladies night.
> 
> Also, I know absolutely nothing about poker. So sorry.

It was quiet at the Piston Peak Fire Attack base. At least, what the residents would consider quiet. The post-dinner lull included the usual sounds, Maru hacking away at something in the shop, the rhythmic thud of Windlifter hoisting logs, and the entirely normal screaming and yelling of Avalanche, Blackout, and Drip doing whatever sort of activity came to mind. This evening’s game seemed to be “Steal Cabbie’s Stuff and Hide It Until Either Blade Finds Out or Cabbie Just Runs Us All Over.” The new SEAT was inside his hangar, either from shyness or self-preservation, no one could tell. The hell if anyone knew where Blade was.

The main hangar was playing host to a much more quiet sort of activity, mainly three friends playing poker around the table. The group usually included a fourth, but Patch had tapped out earlier in the evening. Tonight they played for a combination of Maru’s stash of high-grade (the really good stuff, Chrysler knew where he got it from) and their chores.

“Aha!! Queens over nines! Read it and weep!” Dynamite claimed her prize from the table, and tossed two of her folded chore sheets back to the center. Dipper and Pinecone did a combination of moaning and sighing, their luck having well and truly turned. Dynamite herself was much more pleased; she had started this evening with a lot less hooch and a ton more of her friends’ chores than she would have liked, but she had finally been able to get rid of latrine duty, and she was determined not to pick that one up again this evening.

“You sure you ain’t cheatin’? You’ve been drawin’ an awful lot of queens in the past few minutes.” Pinecone did not want latrine duty back. Just done that yesterday, thanks.

“You jinxed it when you said she’d lose the next five hands. She’s been winning ever since,” Dipper mumbled from behind her cards.

“Don’t be jelly. You two had your turn at winning all the time. Your turn to cut the deck, Dipper.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You still pinin’ over there? Thought we’d moved passed that into havin’ some fun.” Pinecone dealt the next hand once Dipper passed her the deck.

“I am not pining! But he’s cute when he sleeps. His ailerons twitch a lot.”

Dynamite leveled a look in Dipper’s direction.

“That’s creepy, girl. You know how creepy that is, right?”

“I’m just watching! Through the window, even! Its not like I’m in there, touching his face--”

“Do you even understand how that sounds?”

“She’ll understand when she gets served with his restrainin’ order…” Pinecone grinned. Dipper just stuck her tongue out at them both.

“We’re all adults, lets at least pretend to act like it.” Dynamite studied her cards. Awesome, again. She loved karma.

“Yes’m, hard sometimes though, up here on our own for a season.” Pinecone studied her hand. Well, at least it was better than her last one.

“Trust me, we all know.” Dynamite threw her a knowing look. Outside, there was a sudden flurry of yelling. Avalanche’s voice carried across the whole base, which was normal, but the husky shout that followed wasn’t. Dynamite sorely hoped they took it easy on Cabbie. Not for his sake, oh no, but for theirs. The old warplane was still brawny as hell and tough as nails, and his monstrous wings could flatten any of those three jokers without any effort. Last thing she needed was to replace a jumper.

“See? Totally not my fault if I go a little crazy.” Dipper added a can to the pool.

“Nope. Still your fault. You don’t see Pinecone or I trying to jump the struts of the first guy who flies in here.”

“Its not ‘the first guy,’” Dipper said this in such a terrible imitation of Dynamite’s voice that it caused Pinecone to choke down her drink, “ its Dusty Crophopper! Never thought I’d meet a racing legend in real life!”

“You’re star struck, then. Just keep it tightened down around Blade. You know his rules about team fraternizing.” Dynamite added three cans and three chore lists to the pool. Bring this on!

“You mean ‘don’t get caught and it’s all okay’?”

Dynamite rolled her eyes.

“You say that like it’s easy. Old guy has terrific hearing and eyesight so good it scares me. I wouldn’t even think about it. Even the concept being considered somewhere at base probably causes some disturbance in the Force that only Blade can feel.”

Pinecone leaned forward, dropped her voice an octave and put on her best suspicious scowl.

“Shh! My repressed emotions are tingling!”

Dipper flat-out laughed, and Dynamite could not suppress a wide grin.

“I think you mispronounced ‘common sense.’ That kind of stuff does lead to drama that we don’t need.”

“It don’t stop the imagination though,” Pinecone said, nodding towards Dipper, who was once again not quite all in the here and now. She snapped to at the quiet snickers.

“What? Oh, you guys are such party poopers! Our love will be real.”

“Not the way you smother him. You have a better chance with Windlifter.”

Dipper gave Dynamite such a look that Pinecone thought one of them might just explode.

“Windlifter? No way. He’s so quiet, and I only understand about two-thirds of anything he does say.”

“Then you understand more than most people. Besides, you know what they say about the quiet ones…”

“Let’s not and say we did.”

“Now who’s no fun?”

Outside, they could hear Blackout yelp, Avalanche scream some more, and Cabbie’s increasingly frustrated growl. No sign of Drip. There was a low, unintelligible rumble, which meant that someone had managed to involve Windlifter in the game to some capacity. This was followed almost immediately by the loudening deep purr of Cabbie’s massive engines starting, which probably meant that Windlifter was giving him ideas. Which was bad. Dipper gave Dynamite a worried look.

“Should we go save them?”

“Nope.”

Pinecone looked thoughtful.

“If it’s true what they say about the quiet ones, then what does that make Chief?”

“Off limits.” Dynamite winced, taking a deep drink. “I would rather make-out with a running chainsaw than make even the vaguest semblance of a pass in Blade’s most general of directions. Maybe when I’m finally ready to die.”

Dipper nodded fervently.

“No kidding. The Scowl of Disapproval? Makes Alaskan winters feel like a vacation in the Bahamas. Brrr!”

“Point taken. Remember that time with the pine tree? I thought a blizzard was blowin’ through. Just Blade, though, frownin' at me.” Pinecone sighed and leaned back. “Which is a darn shame, all things considered.”

“Ya think? Considering the way he looks, even now? Thirty years ago that man was so deep in girls they could kiss his rotors, I’d bet my next three paychecks.”

“I wonder what happened to make him such a lurker.”

Dynamite snorted a laugh.

“He does not lurk.”

Dipper peered back over her cards.

“He lurks on the cliff at night.”

“That’s brooding, not lurking. Brooding is for people who have dark, painful pasts and leads to a life of dry sarcasm.”

“You have to admit its hard not to laugh at some of those deadpan jokes though.”

“I’ll be the first one to admit it. I’ve had to hold my breath just to save face.”

It had become eerily quiet outside, they noticed. No yelling, no one’s engines, nobody screaming for help. Dynamite wondered if Cabbie had just offed her whole crew and had Windlifter help him hide the bodies.

Pinecone broke the silence first.

“Y’all realize we just had an entire conversation about how attractive our boss is, right? Never thought I’d have the manifolds to say any of that out loud.” She looked at her can of high-grade. “Chrysler, this stuff must be good.”

Dynamite just let out a sound reminiscent of both a laugh and a sigh.

“Yes, yes we did. And I still have this terrible feeling that it is going to come back and bite us so hard in the—“

The hangar door opened then, and the aforementioned air boss stalked quietly inside. That sure explained the sudden quiet outside; nothing broke up a fight like the chief's chilly brand of chastising. He looked around for something, clearly didn’t find it, and snorted in irritation.

“Blackout hasn’t been in here, has he?”

“No, sir. Not since dinner.”

Blade stopped, and looked Dynamite square in the face. The Smokejumper captain was a hard worker and an incredibly capable officer, but over the years the word “sir” had worked it’s way out of her vocabulary, save the most tense situations where rote conditioning took over.

“Is something the matter?” Rhetorical question. Something was up.

“Not at all.”

“No, sir.”

“Mm-mm.”

Silence.

Blade’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he took minor stock in the poker game laid clearly out on the table. Dynamite was winning, currently, given the small pile of “loot” in front of her. Blade himself had stopped playing for stakes ever since that one night when Maru and Cabbie had driven everyone else almost to financial ruin. Speaking of, he needed to speak to one of those people about a substance in ample supply on this table. The three players just watched him carefully.

“Don’t let me stop you, then, ladies.” The way they stared at him made some feeling crawl around uncomfortably underneath his plating, in between heavy suspicion and the feeling that he should escape before he heard something that he really didn’t need to.

“G’night boss.”

“Good night. Keep an eye out for something of Cabbie’s, will you? Blackout does not seem to remember what he took, nor where he hid it.” If disbelief was a tangible substance, Blade dripped it from his mouth in quantities that would drown lesser folks.

Dynamite cringed a bit on the inside.

“I’ll see what I can do about it.” Blade gave her a single nod and took his leave in a manner that in anyone else might have been described as fleeing.

The hangar’s remaining inhabitants exchanged looks with one another.

“Y’all think he suspects?” Pinecone dropped her voice to a whisper, unsure how far outside the door he still was.

“Oh, he suspects something, alright,” Dynamite hissed. “Maybe not what we said,” not that there was any way to possibly tell how much he’d heard through the door on his approach, “but I know he was eyeing the hooch we happen to have all over the table.”

Dipper sighed.

“When do you think we’ll feel the repercussions of that?”

“As soon as he’s done ensuring Cabbie doesn’t assassinate my boys in their sleep.”

Pinecone drained the last of her can sadly.

“Unless he just cuts our supply off at the source.”

Dipper and Dynamite just stared, and Pinecone could see the morbid realization wash over their faces. It was too late to warn Maru that Blade was coming his way. They would have to put something nice on his headstone.

“Oh slag.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These characters are fun to write together. Next time I'll add Patch; I didn't have a clear grasp of her character when this was written, since she only has a handful of lines.
> 
> Also, I clearly need more Cabbie.


	3. War Stories - Smokejumpers & Cabbie

     One day, Avalanche had called him “Uncle.” Considering it was Avalanche, the whole base heard it. Cabbie had given him the most unreadable stare. Blade, getting Maru to tune-up his rotor assembly, had stopped dead in the middle of a sentence to peer outside. Maru had almost laughed himself sick. Dipper was aware enough to swallow any laugher she had, and if Windlifter had an opinion on the matter, he didn’t show it. For their part, the rest of the Smokejumpers did a combination of gasping and giggling that sounded similar to a cacophony of hyenas with asthma. Avalanche just grinned.

     Cabbie had snorted and dismissed him with a, “Try my name next time, kid.”

     Internally, though, the name stuck. Among themselves, well out of earshot of anyone else (and especially Cabbie), they sometimes used the moniker in reference to their ride to work.

     They ribbed him a lot; on his age, mostly, and occasionally on his speed, boring pastimes, and “old man music.” It went both ways. He would dismiss their inexperience, their brashness, and their often dangerous stunt-devil side projects. They tended to clam up when it was time to load and go, however, and the ride in Cabbie’s hatch was remarkably free of snark. Any jibes that were thrown remained mild, and tended to be thinly veiled encouragement.

     “See ya later, old man!” Drip yelled as he leaped from the hatch one day.

     “Try not to eat too much dirt when ya land,” can the husky response.

     Drip did end up tasting some soil during that jump.

     Cabbie didn’t always leave the scene entirely when his part was over. He would often climb out of the crowded lower airspace and circle slowly, watching the rest of the fight unfold.  Blade was always easy to spot, his bright red livery easily visible even from Cabbie’s altitude ceiling (but he never watched from there; he was getting too old for that slag). Dipper was just as easy to spot, but with regular detours to reload for either mud or water, she was a less common sight than the chief’s continuous presence. Windlifter was green and black, and despite being a big sucker, often the only sign of him was the massive red plume of retardant he’d trail behind him. He always kept the corner of his eye trained on the ground, on the lookout for five brightly colored groundpounders up to their floodlights in brush and ash. He never envied their job; it was one thing to fly over a fire, it was another fight entirely to look it in the face and snuff it.

     Dynamite was settling nicely into her role as team captain. Following the loss of her predecessor, she received the promotion by acclaim, and Blade made it so. They had acquired Pinecone to refill the gap in the roster, and she had taken to her training like she was born for it (aside from that one accident on her first jump that ended with her in a tree. Maru had pulled more than one bucket of prickly pinecones from her undercarriage and other bits, and the nickname had stuck). Team cohesion was at an all-time high, and work got done swiftly and efficiently. So far that year, a fire had never remained uncontained for more than a couple days, come high winds or drought, or both.

     It was on such a day that Cabbie was glad he stayed. It was more dry than normal; the rainy season hadn’t been all that rainy, and the start of fire season had come a full month and a half early. With a relative humidity in the mid-teens and a temperature that made ninety degrees look refreshing, the whole valley had become a tinderbox. An unauthorized campfire had sparked a blaze near the valley floor, and it was well under way upon their arrival. Cabbie dropped his overeager cargo in a nearby meadow, waited for Dynamite’s confirmation of the team’s intactness upon landing, and pitched his nose up hard to take him out of Blade’s workspace. The aforementioned air boss hadn’t spared a moment, and already had Windlifter and Dipper performing the precise and intricate dance that herded the flames to his whim. He didn’t pause his instructions as he passed off Cabbie’s starboard side, but tipped curtly in his direction as way of a wave. Cabbie responded in kind on his way to his usual holding pattern, dipping a wing slightly before ascending.

     On the ground, Dynamite went to work. With winds out of the northwest, they were currently parallel to the fire. The air tankers were laying retardant up towards the ridge, slowing its rate of spread until her unit could put a line around the rest of the blaze. The crew was deep into their stride, and it progressed as smoothly as she ever could have hoped.

     And then it all went straight to hell.

     Dynamite heard Windlifter remark on the sudden change in wind direction, as well as Dipper’s report on a sudden finger that sprouted at the head of the fire. There were spot fires as well. Blade moved immediately to help them intercept, attempting to at least douse well enough ahead of the fire to slow its spread. Dynamite looked down the line. Broad and clean, her crew did good work. But the urgency over the radio grew more severe; if the fire could not be contained quickly, they might be calling for a strike team.

     A gust of wind came charging through the forest, and Dynamite had to blink through the searing air and gritty ash. She watched embers fly from the crowning fire in the trees. Most fluttered harmlessly into the dirt firebreak. It was the ones that made it into the brush on the other side that immediately made her worry. This section of forest hadn’t burned in years, and the ladder fuels were thick. They snuffed the ones they could find, but it took only a few minutes to confirm Dynamite’s fears, and soon there was smoke as orange tongues of flames consumed dry and dead wood on the _outside_ of the line.

     “Pull back! It will be around us soon! Pull _back_!” Her team broached no arguments. They took off down the firebreak; Dynamite was the fastest, but she spent most of her time driving circles around the others to keep them together. Avalanche was the slowest, the ‘dozer’s heavy treads were build for power, not speed. Even so, they kept a brisk pace. Dynamite thought they’d make it to their safety zone, except that the wind had pushed embers far ahead of them. The small field that would have been their emergency fallback was aflame; without a place to clear enough room to create a defensible space, the fire would burn over them, with spectacularly painful results.

     The radio chatter was fierce. On the other side of the fire, the tankers were struggling to stop the inferno’s swift charge up the dry hills. Dynamite opened her radio to cut in, when she felt a ping on the second channel. She ignored it, until it came again, rapid-fire, more insistent. She switched hastily, her temper starting to fray.

     “ _What_!”

     “There is a dry, shallow ravine to your southwest about one-hundred and fifty yards. It terminates in a meadow of short grass with an area of about two-hundred square yards. If you go now, you should make it.” Dynamite wasn’t sure what she expected to hear, but Cabbie’s voice was _not_ it.

     Dynamite looked up as a shadow knifed over them. She could see the wide wings, double-tail, and dark silver belly of the massive Fairchild C119 as he banked slowly overhead. From up above, his view of the terrain would be far superior to hers. The tankers had to reload, so a drop was a few minutes away. And this was not the time to argue.

     “C’mon, lets go! We have about five minutes before it overtakes us entirely!” And that was pushing it. With the way the winds were moving, they may have only two. If they didn’t move, even less time than that.

     Dynamite took off from the line and followed the path Cabbie’s shadow took. It was not as easy as she would have liked. Her tires had difficulty finding purchase on the dense leaf litter and slick pine needles under the trees, and she was not the only one. Blackout and Pinecone were having similar issues, although Blackout’s sheer weight forced some traction on its own, and Pinecone’s wider chassis added some stability. She started to envy Drip and Avalanche’s treads, as the both of them were eating through the soft ground cover with no issues.

     The narrow, rocky creek bed presented its own set of challenges. While it was a natural firebreak in its own right, it was far too slender to do anything to the conflagration heading towards them. Her tires favored it a bit better, but both Pinecone and Blackout ground their undercarriages on the rocky outcroppings several times. Avalanche pushed past both of them, and Dynamite let him overtake her as well. He moved the larger debris as he went, leaving a relatively smoother line of travel for the rest of them.

     Coming out of the gully into the small meadow sent a wave of relief over her. Dynamite wanted to catch her breath, but they were not done yet. Fortunately for her, her crew knew their jobs. The instant Avalanche’s treads touched grass he put his blade to the ground, clearing massive swaths of open dirt. Pinecone was not far behind him, raking large amounts of light vegetation to the sides of the clearing. Drip and Blackout removed what large obstructions were present, and it took only a matter of moments for a massive emergency zone to take shape.

     In the nick of time, too. Drip had to reverse rapidly to avoid the flames that started to grow along the meadow’s edge. It took only a few moments longer and the area around the clearing was engulfed, the fire leaping swiftly from tree to tree, sheets of flame easily rising a good ten feet above the canopy. Where they were huddled in the middle, it grew uncomfortably hot. Still, it was better than the ready alternative.

     After a minute, Dynamite realized she could hear nothing but the breathing from her team and the cracking roar of the fire around them. She uttered a not-so-quiet curse, and returned her radio to the field channel. 

     “—amite! Dynamite! Do you copy?”

     “I copy, Blade. We’re about three hundred yards from out original safety zone. The fire jumped around us. Hopefully we’ll be in the black in a few minutes.”

     “An update would have been nice. This thing is swiftly outgrowing us; Patch has a call in to the neighboring counties for mutual aid. Once we get you guys out, we’ll establish command at base.”

     “Copy that, sir.” Dynamite could hear a great many emotions in his voice as he spoke. The anger and frustration first and foremost, relief if she knew how to listen. She knew she was gonna get one hell of a chewing out once he had time to speak with her face to face.

     Her team had settled in around her for the wait. The fire still roared around them, their little clearing the only thing around that was not burning. The smoke rose in thick, billowing clouds that blocked most of the sky, filtering the sunlight into messy patches.

     For a moment then, briefly, it was all shadow. High above, through the columns of smoke, they could see the unique outline of an old warplane circling overhead. Dynamite found she couldn’t stop grinning.

     “When we get back, we all owe Uncle a drink or five.” She heard four raspy, coughing giggles. Blackout smirked.

     “Shall we tell ‘im we love ‘im, too?”

     “Yes. Even if he tries to slap you with his wings. Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I needed more Cabbie, and all the jumpers are fun to write.
> 
> A brief word on fire terminology used:
> 
> Strike team: five like units of apparatus dispatched to a location (i.e. five engines, five brush trucks, etc.), all with similar communications and a single commander. The sister to a strike team would be a "task force" (five unlike units, pretty much any mixture of apparatus).
> 
> The black: the already burned part of a wild land fire. A safe place to be in an emergency, since most of the fuel here has been used. The opposite would be "the green," or the unburned area.
> 
> Mutual aid: when a given department reaches its load capacity and calls for assistance. Very common for wildfires, but also happens with municipal fire departments as well.
> 
> I'm sure I'm forgetting something else. Meh.


	4. War Stories - Drip and the Deere

     “Drip! What on earth is taking so long?”

     “Uh…”

     How was he going to explain this? He looked down into his claw, the tiny green creature still shaking as it called for the parent that wouldn’t come for it. He rolled carefully out of the small gully, trying hard not to jostle it too much as he went. The mop up for this fire was basically done; they hadn’t found a live ember in some time. Taking time to check the one small island in the middle of the black, Drip had heard… something. Whatever it was, it was having itself a very terrible day. He’d moved a log to check for anything smoldering underneath, and had instead found a small deere fawn, shivering and screaming for its mother. It flinched when it saw him, but didn’t flee, and instead just wailed louder. He had been afraid to touch it at first, wild animals didn’t reclaim their babies if tampered with, right? He had gently set the log down and backed out of the gully. If it kept making noise like that, its parent would find it.

     As he continued to sift through ash and debris, he did find something that made his lines run cold. Charred black, and warped by the heat, was the plating of an adult deere. A doe too, judging by the lack of a rack. Drip was close enough to still be able to hear the fawn in the gully. Whether it had been fleeing for safety or returning for its infant was anyone’s guess, but the flames had been far too much for even the swift deere to out run. He chewed his lip as he looked back at the tiny hole of shrubbery. He knew he really shouldn’t; this kind of thing happened all the time in the forest. But he couldn’t just…leave it here.

     It had taken him longer than he hoped to scoop it up into his claw. It wailed as he came back, and started to squirm the moment he touched it. Fortunately it didn’t seem to have the strength to climb out of the gully on its own, and he was able to grab it carefully. It mewled and thrashed around for a little bit, but once it wore itself out it huddled down and shivered.

     Which is how he found himself here, heading slowly for the rest of his team with a baby wild animal. Dynamite was going to just love this.

    Turns out, the team found him first. Blackout came from up the ridge, tires kicking up dirt as he skidded to a stop.

     “Dynamite’s wonderin’ where you are, _jefe_. Gotta make it to the clearing if we’re gonna get a pickup.”

     “Yeah, I’m coming.”

     Blackout noticed, then, the green thing he was carrying with him.

     “What ya got there, man?”

     “A baby deere was in the island over there. I didn’t want to leave it.”

     “What happens when its mom comes looking for it?”

     Drip looked back towards the charred field. Blackout followed his gaze, and even at this distance could make out the little pile of blackened metal.

    “Oh.”

     He looked at the fawn, and it stared right back at him. And then it gave a little frightened squeak.

     “Well, hopefully its cute enough that Dynamite won’t make you leave it here.”

     “It’s not really Dynamite I’m afraid of.”

     Blackout snorted a laugh, and turned to begin the climb back up the ridge.

     “One jump at a time, _jefe_. Gotta get through her before you even talk to the Chief.”

     Drip adjusted his grip on the fawn and followed close behind, hoping he could smoothen the ride for his charge by putting his treads in Blackout’s tire tracks.

     Dynamite was the first to greet them when they crested the top. Avalanche and Pinecone were next to Windlifter, who came packing the cargo carrier that would be their ride home.

     “Where have you two jokers been? Was almost tempted to make you hike back out of here.” She noticed a distinct lack of yelling and racing, and they shared a mighty suspicious look between each other. Drip did that lip-chewing thing he did when he thought he was in trouble, and opened his claw a bit for her to see. What was—

     “WHAT IS THAT THING?”

     Dynamite rolled her eyes. Thank you, Avalanche.

     “It’s a deere fawn. I found it during mop up. And before you ask, no, its mom is not coming back for it.” Drip chewed his lip again. “Trust me.”

     Dynamite leaned in for a better look. It was indeed a tiny green baby deere, trembling and mewling in Drip’s grip. She sighed.

     “You know Blade isn’t going to let you keep it, right?”

     “I don’t want to keep it forever! I know it can’t stay with us, but it couldn’t stay there either.”

     By this time Drip was surrounded, and Dynamite could feel the cool shadow that meant Windlifter was looming behind her. Pinecone straight-up squealed when she got a good look. Avalanche was oddly fascinated.

     Under any other circumstance, Dyanmite would have made him tuck it under a tree and leave it. Wild animal, leave it that way. But she watched him handle it carefully, and any counter she had died in her mouth. Her team did not have a delicate job; they were rough people doing rough work. But she had to admit, watching Avalanche gentlygentlygentlygently try to touch the fawn with his dozer blade was only the most adorable thing she’d ever seen, as was watching him flinch just slightly when it wailed at the light contact. She gave another sigh, and looked at Windlifter. He stared right back, giving her no more answers than a slight arc of an eyebrow.

     Chevy. How the hell was she going to explain this?

     “Can I bring it?” Heaven forbid Dynamite deny him the right to stand before Blade’s mighty glare and argue in defense of a baby deere.

     “Yes, but don’t think Blade will let you get more than ten feet onto base without asking about it.”

     “Yes’m.”

     “Ain’t there a wildlife rehabilitation center in the southern edge of the park? We can take it there tomorrow.” Pinecone carefully pet the fawn with her grapple, to the same result that Avalanche got. “Or tonight, if the boss says so,” she added wryly.

     “SHH! DON’T JINX IT!”

     “Never pegged you for an animal person.”

     “IT’S ADORABLE!”

     Dynamite began herd her team towards the cargo carrier. The sooner they got back to base, the sooner this could be over with. She had to say she kinda hoped Blade let it stay the night.

     Because watching her burly crew learn to nursemaid a baby deere all evening was going to be hilarious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I needed something adorable for no reason.
> 
> Also, was I the only one endlessly amused by the fact that they used Deere as deer? And all the bucks had racks (of lights)? Maybe so. It was like one giant pun, which I like because I'm terrible.


	5. War Stories - Drip and the Deere II

Drip shifted uncomfortably on his treads. Clutched gently in his grip was the tiny deere fawn, no longer trembling, but it gave a plaintive mewl every few minutes.

All the while, Blade scowled.

Drip swallowed hard. He had expected this to be difficult, but it had been a while since he was the sole recipient of Blade’s piercing, icy stare, and he promptly remembered why it was to be avoided at all costs. Like that one time he’d leaped from a hill to escape from it…

Blade cleared his throat.

“So you brought it back here?”

“Yessir.”

“To the base.”

“Yessir.”

“Where we are entirely unequipped to take care for infant wildlife.”

“Y-yessir.”

Blade’s eyes narrowed, and Drip almost thought lasers would soon come shooting out.

“So then, please remind me, since I couldn’t quite hear it through the sheer amounts of Bad Idea that was pouring forth, _why_?”

“Because it would have died out there all by itself!” Blade’s face did not soften in the slightest. “A-and, I mean, it’s also… it’s a bit, well, kinda--,”

“IT’S ADORABLE!”

Drip did his very best to suppress a wince. Avalanche was not helping, and he really, really hoped the sound he heard was Dynamite smacking him. Blade continued to scowl at him before deigning to look at the deere. It stared right back at him, and gave a little plaintive bleat. Drip saw something in Blade’s continence then, just a bit. About the same amount of difference that a candle would make against a glacier.

Maybe?

“Even hearing it a second time, your reason is still terrible. I don’t care how you get it there, take it to the rehabilitation center before the evening is over.”

Or not.

Behind him, other people were equally unthrilled.

“I TOLD YOU YOU’D JINX IT!” He liked to imagine he could hear Pinecone roll her eyes.

Drip opened his mouth, only to shut it with a click when Blade cocked a brow.

“Don’t even. Do you know what to feed it? Its best chance of survival now is with the professionals.” Blade turned and headed for the main hangar, clearly done having this conversation. Drip sighed, and looked down at the fawn. It looked at him and squeaked. He felt someone nudge his flank.

“Good try, _jefe_.” Blackout gave Drip and deere alike a sympathetic grin. “That could have gone much more terribly.”

“No kidding. Did you see the look he gave me when we got back? Thought I was gonna burst into flames.” He heard a dry cackle from behind him.

“Or at least keel over dead. Glad you’re still with us.” Maru smirked at him, and gave the little deere a glance that looked suspiciously like an ‘aww’ face. Now that Blade was no longer threatening his immediate vicinity, Drip found himself surrounded again. Dipper and Pinecone were still squealing to each other, and Dynamite and Windlifter watched from a distance. Cabbie was either paying very little mind or watching from a _really_ safe distance. Maru backed out of the throng, and beckoned for Drip to follow.

“I think I got something to keep our guest secure before it goes on another trip. Avalanche! Get in here and help me out.” He retreated to the shop, moving items out of the way on his journey to the backmost reaches. Drip was incredible grateful for his help; the little thing’s first flight had not gone smoothly. The instant Windlifter’s rotors had reached a steady roar, the deere had screamed and struggled like it was dying. Never mind the no-longer-on-the-ground part. Drip had almost feared it would squirm free and fall to its death, and had held onto it more tightly than he knew was gentle.

“Aha! Found it!” Maru rolled out from the back of the shop, Avalanche pushing a large metal crate behind him. Drip remembered it, from when Maru had a set of propellers shipped here after Cabbie over-stressed his own executing a remarkable feat of aerial agility meant for younger, faster planes with jet engines and half his wingspan. It was more than large enough to hold a fawn for transport. 

“Place it in here, Drip. I dare the little bugger to wiggle out of this.” Blackout retrieved the service ramp; the crate was tall enough that they would need to lower the deere into it. It seemed to know something was up, because it started to squirm about and whimper as Drip rolled up the ramp. He adjusted his grip, and carefully lifted it over the edge of the crate to place it inside. The deere took one look down into the box, and struggled harder, bleating.

“C’mon, the quicker you put it in, the sooner it gets its tires back on solid ground.” Maru tapped one of his forks against the corner of the crate.

“It’s squirming so much, I’m afraid I’m going to drop it.” He was trying so hard to be gentle, but if it wiggled loose and fell into the crate…

“It survived the fire okay, right? Little sucker’s tougher than you give it credit.” The fawn seemed to take this to heart, and it gave an energetic thrash that jarred it halfway free of Drip’s claw.

“Gah!” He managed to get it back securely in his claw again, before sitting back on his treads and letting out a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding. He looked down at it, and it gave a tired squeak. “You are not being very helpful, tiny thing.”

Blackout rapped on the service ramp to get his attention, looking thoughtful.

“What if we just scooped it into the crate? Ya know, put the crate on its side, push the deere in, then stand the crate back up?” There was silence as that sunk in. It sure seemed like the easier approach.

“Huh. That might… huh.” Maru shared a look with Avalanche, and the track loader heaved the crate over without a second thought.

“TADAH!”

Drip brought the fawn back down the ramp. It wriggled a bit as he approached the container, and wobbled shakily as he set it back on its own tires. He gave it a gentle nudge from behind, and it rolled forwards just a bit. It sniffed the crate experimentally before deciding that it did not want to be there, and jogged swiftly to the side. Fortunately, Avalanche moved to intercept, the broad plane of his blade proving to be a very effective roadblock. It squeaked an indignant fawn squeak at him.

A large shadow fell across the shop threshold, Cabbie’s massive wingtips barely missing the building.

“Y’all coming to dinner?” He paused to peer inside and stifled a wince. There was too much nonsense in here for him.

“Yeah, Cabbie, just give us a sec.” From Maru’s face, there was almost too much for him, too. He did, however, find amusement in watching Avalanche sit helplessly as the deere mewled at him, favoring huddling against his blade instead of going cooperatively into the metal crate. He gave the thing a tiny push, and it just leaned against him harder. He gave Drip the loudest ‘do something!’ look Cabbie had ever seen.

Heh, brash, brawny Avalanche brought low by baby. Cabbie would remind him of this for years.

With Avalanche blocking all possible escape routes, Drip gave the fawn a gentle, firm push forwards, just far enough to get all its tires solidly on one side of the box. Avalanche caught the lip of the crate by the edge of his blade and raised it back upright. They heard the deere roll to the bottom with a soft thunk.

“Whew! Done with that. Lead on, Cabbie!” Maru heaved a sigh and moved to follow the old warplane to the main hangar.

“But Blade said I have to take it right now.” Drip was tempted to race back up the ramp and peer inside. He could hear its little tires scrabbling around.

“No, Chief said you had to take it back _this evening_. He didn’t say anything about doing it immediately.” Maru gently tapped the crate, grinning when a little mewl echoed out the top. “This’ll hold till we’re done. C’mon, kid. Fuel first, shuttle your baby later. Have you even had anything since you guys got back from your camping trip?”

Drip sighed and muttered something about it not really being his baby under his breath, but followed Maru’s brisk roll towards the main hangar.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you serious!?” Drip could not even believe his ears.

“I’ve been around a long time. Seen some things. Trust me, Blade’s a secret silver fox.” Maru gave him a knowing, lopsided grin as they ambled slowly back towards his shop. The were the head of a small procession who wished to see the deere off on its next adventure. 

“No way.”

“I’m telling you, it’s about as rare to see as digging up a cut diamond, but his Hollywood-level charm skill still exists.”

“I don’t believe you. I- I can’t believe you.” Maybe _years_ ago. Before he was _old_. And bitter.

This was the culmination of the gradual degradation in dinner topics once Blade had excused himself. Cabbie had followed not long after, and once free of those who looked down on such things, Maru’s high-grade made a triumphant return. Drip always wondered how he did it; anytime the rest of them hid any contraband on base, Blade sniffed it out inside of a week.

A few minutes into sipping the stuff and the topic direction had fallen swiftly from ‘We Are Glad Blade’s Not Here to Glare at Us for Talking About This’ to ‘Nobody But Maru Has the Ball Bearings to Say This in Blade’s Presence.’

“Fine, have it your way. But one of these days, you’re gonna see some poor girl halfway to overheating, and all she did was have a _conversation_ with him. You’d think his tongue was dipped in gold—“

“I would rather not have to visualize these things.”

“IT HURTS TO IMAGINE IT!”

Surprisingly, neither Pinecone nor Dynamite seemed to have too much of an opinion. He wondered why.

Drip heard Maru’s chuckle die off as they approached the shop. Something was off. Nothing seemed out of place, and the crate still sat in the middle of the room. Had they left it tilted over on its side though?

Oh, _stickshift_.

“Are you kidding me!?” Maru inspected the crate. Yup, the once right-side-up container was now well and truly compromised, and more importantly, no longer contained anything.  
  
“How the heck did it--! I don’t even!”

Drip looked inside the box. No deere babies, and not even any tire marks to know where it went.

“Well, you did say it was tougher than it let on.” Maru gave him a look that spoke volumes about how Not Amused he was.

“Yes, but it should not have been able to just flip this over. We made Avalanche move the crate because he’s strong as hell. I don’t care how awesome that deere thinks it is, it should not be strong enough to escape from the inside!”

No one in the shop was able to supply an explanation.

“Maybe it just jumped out?” Blackout thought better of this once he heard himself say it out loud, because that sure didn’t explain why it tipped the crate over afterwards.

“Pure, primal tenacity?” Dipper supplied, never mind that it had been shaky on its suspension just over an hour ago.

“MAGIC!?” Maru looked very much like he wanted to bury a wrench in Avalanche’s face. The big ‘dozer just grinned under the mechanic’s glare.

“In any event, we need to find it, if it’s not too late.”

“Would it have fled back to the woods?” Drip seriously hoped not. Deere were green for camouflage; finding a green creature in a forest? Nobody’s idea of fun, ever.

“I hope not. Then we’ll never find it, and all kinds of predators will eat a helpless baby deere.” Dipper regretted saying this almost immediately once she saw the horrible realization cross Drip’s face.

“Well, lets start looking. Last thing we need is for Blade to find it running loose before we do. And we should do it before it gets dark.”

Meanwhile, from the quiet solace that was the roof of his hangar, Windlifter watched the proceedings at the shop. The tiny creature had evidently made a break for it while no one was watching, and he could hear the rising panic in Drip’s voice even from this distance. In Cabbie’s hangar next door, both occupants seemed blissfully ignorant of the shenanigans that slowly washed over the rest of the base. Cabbie and Blade were absorbed in a quiet game of chess, but every now and then Windlifer could hear a friendly jibe or good-natured snarl of frustration shoot across the table.

Something rustled the bushes in between the buildings, and Windlifter watched as a pair of green ears pricked from above the foliage. The little fawn sniffed the air, caught sight of him, then fled behind the hangar next to his. Cabbie’s hangar.

Windlifter swallowed quietly, then opened a discreet radio channel with both Maru and Dynamite. They at least deserved a warning before the End was Nigh.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s criminal how good you are at this game.” Cabbie heaved what he was sure was the most recent of a mere hundred sighs that had come forth in just the past half hour. Blade smirked at him as he claimed his bishop.

“Imagine how good I’d be if you stopped taking all my pieces.” Blade had only settled for Cabbie’s bishop. He really wanted one of his knights, which Cabbie wielded with such frightening efficiency that Blade was sure he had been destined to lose during the first few minutes of the match.

“That’s what scares me. I was winning, and now I’m suddenly not winning at a speed that boggles my mind.”

“Then stop fighting back so much, and I’ll end it quick.”

“Over my dead body,” Cabbie growled, and studied the board. He had to do something about Blade’s stupid, irritating queen.

It was quiet outside, but every once in a while a smokejumper would race by, usually alone, and sneaking about in such a way that it made Cabbie’s skin prickle. If they started taking his things again…

Something tipped over and clattered to the floor in the back of his hangar, and Cabbie got the distinct feeling he was being watched. The punks were at it again, it appeared. It was neither Drip nor Avalanche, since their treads made too much noise, which meant either Blackout (likely), Pinecone (highly unlikely), or Dynamite (not in a million years). He took a small amount of solace that whomever it was had evidently run afoul of the dust back there; he heard an awful lot of sniffling.

Blade was staring under Cabbie’s wing, the expression on his face set firmly at disapproval.

“You kids having fun back there?” Cabbie really hoped they tried to talk their way out instead of making a run for it. Blackout had a clever tongue, but against Blade’s razor-edged wit he stood no chance.

There was more clattering, a stifled squeak, and more sniffling. Blade’s eyes narrowed sharply, and he sucked a hissing breath through his teeth.

“They are, apparently, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

Cabbie frowned, and turned as the sniffling got suspiciously close to his landing gear. The tiny mass of green flinched back a bit and stared at him. And squeaked.

“Aw slag.”

Drip’s little project had clearly escaped his grasp, and decided to show itself around the base. Sure explained the not-so-stealthy activity he had seen recently, and Cabbie felt the tiniest twinge of sympathy. Irritating side projects not withstanding, Drip was a nice kid, clearly kind enough to save injured wildlife, and probably worried that his wild baby was off on its own.

But now it was in his hangar, and he could feel bits of his sympathy starting to peel away.

“Weren’t they supposed to have turned it over by now?”

“More or less, yes.” At least, if they didn’t want to make a very long trip of it. There were just a few more minutes of light, and if Drip had any intention of getting Windlifter to carry the fawn to the sanctuary, he’d better do it before the skycrane was grounded for the night.

Blade watched the deere stare at Cabbie before it finally decided to approach him again, continuing its inspection of his wheel assembly. Cabbie flinched when it put its black, little nose against one massive tire, and then gave a sharp yelp when it dove under his belly, nestling itself against his underside. Blade felt a wide, full grin tightening his face.

“I think it likes you.”

“It could like me from a distance.” Cabbie could feel it wiggling under there.

“Too bad. Looks like it takes after Drip.”

“Damn shame, that.”

“Too late now. Appears to be wedged under there pretty good. How’s it feel to be a great uncle?” Cabbie pinned him with a look.

“Don’t you even start.” The fawn slowly scooted up Cabbie’s underside towards his chin, pressing itself to the wheels there. Cabbie gave a half-hearted chuff that could have been a protest if he bothered to try harder, but he just sighed in resignation instead.

Blade laughed as he watched. Cabbie could talk a lot of acid with the best of them, but he minded his weight carefully as the fawn leaned against his front landing gear. Big softie. Probably why all the jumpers liked him so much.

Speaking of, he’d better give them a call. Shame if he were the only one to witness this.

“I’d keep yer peepers on the game, if I were you.” Blade gave Cabbie a smirk before making his move. Cabbie glared at him all the while, intent on ignoring the fawn pressed warmly against him.

What happened next, Blade didn’t even know, but in the span of three turns Cabbie had managed to sick one of his terrible little knights on Blade’s last rook, a pawn, and a bishop. He was dangerously close to a checkmate, too.

“What the hell? How did--? Are you cheating?” It was this moment right here when Blade thought he might bet getting old, because he had clearly missed whatever had just taken place right in front of his eyes. It was a sobering thought, considering his opponent was a good two decades his senior.

“Was I cheating when I was winning earlier, too?”

“I don’t know, but that last move couldn’t have been legal.”

“It’s what you get.”

“For what!?”

Cabbie didn’t get to answer, for the fawn roused itself from under him and slid out. The big aircraft was warm and comfy, but clearly made too much noise for the sleepy baby. They both watched carefully as it sniffed at their table, the chessboard, before finally making it’s way into Blade’s personal space. He scowled at it, and fully expected the reaction he usually got from people, namely fleeing in terror. The deere merely let his glare wash over it, mewled, and went about slowly sniffing his perimeter. He now understood how Cabbie had squirmed when it stuck its little nose into ticklish places he couldn’t see.

“That’s cute.” Cabbie was sporting the smirk that Blade had borne just a minute ago.

“Hush. Call it back to you.” He could feel it trying to smell his tail boom.

“Not on yer life.”

The fawn finished it’s inspection next to his flank, and Blade watched in horror as it plopped down next to him. _Right_ next to him. Leaning _heavily_.

Cabbie barked a laugh.

“I take that last bit back. _This_ is what you get.”

Blade heard the deere yawn.

“Come take it, please. I don’t do ‘cute.’”

“Sure you do. You’re doing it right now.”

Blade felt it bury its face against his hoist hatch. Or try to. It was so little, it ended up just nuzzling against his landing gear housing. And then its tiny infant motor made sleepy, purry noises, and Blade knew his reputation would be wrecked for weeks.

Cabbie’s gaze shifted over, and his amused grin took on a dangerous quality that made Blade’s plating crawl. He was able to turn just enough to see that they had company; Dipper had on the mushiest face he’d ever seen, and Drip was biting his lip in an effort not to smile. Maru, Blackout, and Avalanche didn’t bother to hide anything in the least.

Blade groaned. Did karma usually punish one for being grouchy and jaded? Clearly so, because it was bringing the hurt all over him.

And its vehicle for retribution was one tiny, runty, very much asleep deere fawn, which twitched and snorted and snuggled closer to him. Blade decided to settle into the situation with as much dignity as he could muster.

The thing was kinda cute anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because people at base needed to be exposed to the baby, too.
> 
> Also, I know nothing about chess. See a pattern? If the game doesn't involve d20s, character sheets, and copious amounts of books filled with rules, I don't know how it's played.
> 
> Except for Go-Fish. I can play a mean game of Go-Fish.


	6. War Stories - Smokejumpers & Cabbie II

Dynamite took a deep breath as Cabbie’s hatch closed, and she felt the telltale pitching in her tank as he went airborne. It was unusually tense in the hold, with good reason.

This was not a normal drop, by any means.

No one either dared to—or wanted to—question Windlifter’s decision to load and go this late into the evening. Blade made him second in command for good reason, and his ability to gage their abilities, likelihood of success, and any tactical advantages were almost as sharp as Blade’s own. Fortunately for Windlifter’s own preference on the matter, Blade was usually around to assume control of the reigns; the Skycrane lieutenant was much more comfortable taking orders than giving them.

Not so much this time. Dynamite grit her teeth against the worry she felt bubbling up into her throat. Blade was firmly in Maru’s care, and if he was confident enough that Blade was out of the mechanic’s bay and unconscious in his own hangar, then Dynamite felt it was only prudent to believe in his recovery. Salty, sarcastic old guy he may be, but no one _ever_ doubted Maru’s abilities; if they stayed under his care, it was common consensus that they would all live forever.

Assuming they each had nice, long careers. When Patch had received word that the fire had not only raced up the entry road but consumed and obliterated the only gate in or out of the park, Dynamite would have been the first to volunteer to head out to help. Assuming that she had beaten everyone else to the punch. No one on base liked to sit on their aft, and the burning desire to go to work ran deep through every single one of them. Probably why Windlifter had not deliberated very long at all in deciding to lead the whole team out, TMST nighttime air attack regulations be damned. Sure, it was dangerous as hell, but they had long since gotten used to the acrid taste of fear and frequently swallowed past it on their way to work.

Cabbie lurched around them, and Dynamite could feel him leaning hard into the turbulence outside. He shuddered, and they were rocked by a particularly jarring jolt that caused Dynamite and Blackout to knock painfully into one of his bulkheads.

“Sorry.” Cabbie’s voice crackled over her radio and echoed around his hold.

“Downdraft?” She suspected as much. Air patterns did strange things at night, and it was not uncommon for winds that raced up ridges during the day came charging back down hill once evening fell.

“I wish. About to enter the valley proper. We’re gonna fly right through this thing, and let me tell you, it is _going_.” Cabbie’s voice was unreadable. He was difficult to truly surprise in any meaningful way, and whatever was happening in the valley below them clearly had not been the most shocking thing he’d seen in his long life. Sometimes she wondered if he did it for their benefit. There had been several instances where he had said something to the effect of, “have fun camping, someone warmed up the fire for ya,” only for them to leap forth into an inferno of not unimpressive proportions. Often when they got back and took an issue, all he would do was shrug his wings and ask why they had never seen a real bonfire before.

Dynamite felt him square out his yaw and go rigid, engines roaring to provide more thrust.

“Hold onto your bumpers, kids.”

“Lets rumble, big guy.” Dynamite heaved a slow, deep sigh, and could hear Drip right behind her, and the slight creak of his treads as he dug them into the rough floor of Cabbie’s hold.

She could tell the exact moment that they entered the fire area, because they promptly felt their tanks drop as Cabbie was thrown several dozen feet upwards, the ferocious updraft created by the fire causing him to fight hard against the erratic and unpredictable air currents. She heard both his engines fight to keep him on his intended course, and he pitched and rolled vigorously as he rode every eddy of air he encountered. Dynamite rocked into her suspension as he did so. Behind her, she heard her team retreat into their various pre-jump routines, usually reserved for larger fires when nerves began to run rampant. Pinecone was whispering a quiet prayer to herself, which Blackout was inevitably listening to and using to calm his breathing. Drip was softly whistling a battle song of some kind. Avalanche was entirely silent, but Dynamite knew his eyes were closed, face an absolute stone-cold picture of serious determination. For her part, she drew confidence from the four teammates-become-family at her back tires, trusting her to lead them onwards into the hungry conflagration, and from the solid, comforting safety of the massive aircraft that gladly shuttled them to hither and yon.

For his part, Cabbie drew a lot of his own drive from the five little gravelcrushers nestled tightly in his hold. They had complete and utter faith in him, and he had long ago come to the realization that it fueled his own desire to never let the rowdy punks down, ever. Their combined mass easily obliterated his rated payload, but he could not quite remember when he had stopped noticing the weight. Probably around the same time he had started to like them. Blade was right, he was getting softer in his old age.

The smoke and heat burned his throat, and visibility was reduced to only a few feet. He felt his radar ping off Dipper and Dusty, not far off his prow, and Windlifter, powering away through the smoke and ash ahead of them. Every once in a while he would see their running lights ahead of him, but the thick smoke, blinding ash, and flying cinders meant these sightings were few and far between. The heat was starting to sear uncomfortably against the underside of his wings and belly, and he wondered how much of his paint would peel from this.

He was rocked by another roiling air current, and he felt the jumpers shift inside at the turbulence. He set his jaw and waggled his wings to adjust his bearings. He was putting his ailerons through the most vigorous workout in quite a while, and he was sure to feel this in his vertical stabilizers tomorrow morning.

Cabbie noticed that Windlifter’s position had steadied on his radar, and he soon came out on the other side of the massive smoke bank. While noticeably clearer, the fire still raged below him (and, to be honest, all around him; he’d never seen it climb the valley walls like this), and the hot, bubbling updrafts made him work to stay on course. Ahead, he could see the lodge. The fire burned all around it, but the defensible space that Blade had vehemently insisted that Spinner build was doing it’s job, as were the roof sprinklers that Cabbie was sure were the only reason that the ciders hadn’t ignited the wood shake shingles. He spared a moment to frown. Those were awful high-pressure sprinklers for a lodge in the middle of the woods, remodeled or not, and Cabbie had a niggling feeling that their lack of water pressure at base might not be due to the old main line after all. Then he was past it, back into the fire’s territory, and a hot gust smacked Cabbie upside the face hard enough to send his nose pitching up rapidly. He felt Dynamite collide against his hatch, and he increased the power to his engines in order to both avoid a stall and to even out his altitude. He had long ago come to terms that this career could be the death of him (even Windlifter had a limit to whom he could carry back to base, and Cabbie’s bulk was way outside that limit), but the idea of dooming the five young adults riding with him did not sit well.

Ahead of him, Windlifter was descending into an airdrop-appropriate elevation. Cabbie heard his instructions to both Dipper and the SEAT crackle over the radio, and Cabbie eased off the throttle as he began to hug the valley wall. The tankers would need to outpace him enough to extinguish the fire around the collapsed park gate, leaving only the smallest of space available for Dynamite’s crew to aim for. Cabbie gave a wry snort; if there was ever a time for the kids to stick the landing with absolutely perfect accuracy, this was certainly it.

He popped his hatch, feeling Dynamite roll to the edge, Drip at her taillights.

“We will arrive in about one thousand yards. There is a very small amount of space available to land in and since there is such a large amount of tourists on the road, if you land in the crowd they won’t really be able to avoid you.” Because the last thing this situation needed was Pinecone or Avalanche landing their several tons of weight on top of somebody.

Dynamite blinked hard against the sudden gust of gritty, hot air that had washed into the hold when Cabbie opened the hatch door. When she could see again, she stared out at sheets of flame from valley wall to valley wall. It looked like the entire park was on fire. The only thing not currently burning was the winding entry road, crowed with trapped guests, but the fire was dangerously close, and people farther back were starting to panic.

She swallowed hard at the realization that Cabbie had just flown them through that, and apart from the vicious turbulence they hadn’t even a clue. There was no way that several miles of fire hadn’t left him with some singeing. Old plane hadn’t made a peep.

“Eight hundred yards.” Cabbie had positioned himself several hundred feet over the entry road, and Dynamite could see that his wide wings were barely clearing the trees on his starboard side. She took another calming breath—just one in a long string, it seemed—and put her tires on the very edge of the hatch door. With such a limited amount of both time and space, she had to get this right the first time. She could not afford to miss.

“Five hundred yards.” Cabbie slowed almost to his stall speed, buying her some time. Behind her, Dynamite heard her team rouse, shifting impatiently.

“Three hundred yards.” Drip was bouncing on his treads, and Dynamite could almost imagine the adrenaline-fueled, nearly delirious grin plastered on his face.

“And Dynamite?” Cabbie’s voice was not loud, and in a career where one’s outside voice got a continuous workout, it caught her attention all the more.

“Please, be careful.” His voice rumbled throughout his hold, and she heard Pinecone’s breathing hitch slightly.

“You got it, Uncle.” Cabbie didn’t even comment on the team nickname, and Dynamite didn’t know if she was disappointed or touched. Out of sight of her and everyone else, Cabbie grinned. He’d hold her to that; heaven help whomever didn’t make it back in one piece.

“Two hundred yards.” Dynamite leaned against her set brakes, watching the ground beneath them, felt the weight of her parachute against her bed. She heard Avalanche rev his engine once. Twice.

“One hundred fifty yards.”

Dynamite let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, unlocked her brakes, and fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because clearly my need for Cabbie is never satisfied, ever. Oh well. At least it makes me write.
> 
> Gramatical errors may abound, as my usual beta is still on vacation. I will fix 'em as soon as I see 'em.
> 
> Words n stuff!
> 
> Yaw: The side to side rotation of an aircraft. 
> 
> Roll: The side to side tilt of an aircraft. The pitch, conversely, is the front to back tilt of an aircraft. 
> 
> Same terminology is also used for boats.
> 
> I also threw out my research notes for this, because all the Smokejumpers together far outstrip a common Fairchild C119's load capacity of five tons. Given that Windlifter works out, I'm just going to figure they have the ability to increase strength with repeated stress, like any organic creature (which means Windlifter must be a monster; any normal Sikorsky S64 has a load capacity that exceeds their own weight of almost ten tons, so he must just be an absolute brute).


	7. War Stories - Blade, Maru and Windlifter

     Blade knew something was up by the size of Maru’s grin. Big as the damned valley, and it looked like it hurt. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had smiled that hard; he wasn’t sure he could any more. Blade watched the mechanic thank Windlifter for the ride back and make a beeline for the main hangar.

     He hadn’t said anything when his team had headed for the Fusel Lodge (minus the Smokejumpers for obvious reasons, and Cabbie because he rightfully had better things to do), and he knew they knew better than to invite him. He would be caught there only if he was dead or it was on fire. Cad Spinner could be either, and he would stay at base. Exactly where he was now, on the canyon overlook, minding the radio and watching the valley. If the group had noticed him on their approach to the airstrip, they showed no sign. He watched the SEAT try to shake Dipper as he backed towards his hangar. It was not working, and she stalked him against the wall. Blade snorted, but was unconcerned. Weird she may be, but Dipper knew the rules: no interteam shenanigans. Or, as he’d heard them whisper quietly, “if Blade doesn’t hear it and no one gets hurt, come what may.”

     Well, that was a horrific line of thought. Time to get rid of that. Because just the mental image of—gah, _no_. He needed a drink, right now.

     He rolled quietly towards the main hangar, intent on ignoring whatever things-he-did-not-need-to-see was going on out of the corner of his eye. He gave a clipped cough to get their attention, and his presence at least caused Dipper to creep back to a somewhat less up-in-Dusty’s-grill distance; the trainee used what common sense he had to duck past her into his hangar and shut the door. Good boy.

     Blade hadn’t made it inside the main hangar even half his body length before he came face to face with Maru, gap-toothed smile leering over the edge of a very large can of high-grade. Blade frowned. That was not supposed to be on base. Heaven forbid Patch get a fire call and their mechanic (or anyone else) is too drunk to tell his face from a pile of rocks. Last thing he needed was the TMST in here.

     Maru looked at Blade, looked at the can, looked back at Blade, smirked the slag-eatingest smirk he’d ever seen, and actually had the manifolds to slide him a matching can. Blade opened his mouth to chastise, but Maru beat him to it.

     “Yeah, yeah, no high-grade. Can’t have the guy who keeps this place running face down and cratered in the kitchen.” He followed this with a deep, loud swig that Blade could practically feel himself.

     “Pretty sure I told you to get rid of that.”

     “I did. The ladies drank slash gambled it all during that last poker game of theirs. I had to get more.”

     Blade sighed it mild frustration. This was not a new topic of contention.

     “Why would you get more of exactly what I told you to get rid of?”

     “Because we all like it.” Maru matched Blade’s scowl with his own grin. While a can of midgrade was not uncommon at base, the air boss had been waging a war against the harder stuff. With good reason, Maru admitted, since any sort of inebriation in the air led to a swift death when one’s job was to fly nap-of-the-earth while the ground was on fire. With another crew, Maru would have agreed with Blade entirely. But they lucked out; they had solid teammates with good sense. Everyone here busted their bumpers for months at a time, so Maru saw no problem with a shot of the strong stuff here and there. Now, how to explain the extra large “shot” in front of him currently…

     Maru’s smile had not lessened a centimeter for a grand total of ten minutes, and Blade was starting to worry.

     “Trust me, boss, I will be leaving for bed entirely sober, since I want to remember everything that happened tonight.”

     Blade cocked a brow, coming fully inside to exchange the high-grade he’d pretend he didn’t see (he’d been doing a lot of that this evening) for a much more modest can of cheap mid-grade. Maru shook his head, and took another swallow that Blade was sure would have entirely destroyed the tolerance of most normal people.

     “Do I want to know? Is it something Spinner is going to complain about later?” He almost hoped that they had broken the whole damned lodge. Almost.

     “Yes, you do want to know. And no, it’s nothing for Cad to get his upholstery in a bunch over.”

     Blade sighed and resigned himself to being regaled with stories from the lodge. Incredibly out of place opulence? Check. Awful coffee? Check. People taking their pictures next to a cutout standee of the Superintendent? Hahahahahahahahahaha! Check. Adorable old couple, back again after fifty years? Check. Windlifter’s toast—what?

     “There have been whole days where I swear I don’t hear him speak more than three words. What kind of toast would he even give?”

     Maru’s grin took on a wolfish quality that also heavily implied an oncoming inside joke.

     “Remember that story he told you when he first came here?”

     Blade remembered. That terrible, terrible load of fakeness that involved a coyote eating his own tires. Against his will, and better judgment, Blade felt the beginnings of a smirk tightening his face.

     “Heh, has he found a way to top that one?”

     “No, but you should have seen everyone’s face as he told it. Took all my effort not to laugh.”

     “Wait. _That’s_ what he used as a _toast_?” Blade could feel his smirk turning into something quite a bit more conspicuous.

     “Oh yeah. Truly priceless. When he started it off as ‘a toast to Coyote,’ I knew we were in for a ride. Almost thought the kid was gonna call him on it, but the doubt is not strong enough in him.”

     “Neither are several other things.”

     “Aw, ease of the guns just a bit, Blazin’ Blade. He’s not dead yet, so it’s not hopeless. You thought Avalanche and Drip were gonna be the same. And let us not revisit your first impression of Dipper.”

     “Huh.” Yes, let us _please_ not.

     It was at this point that the hangar door opened, and there was suddenly much less space inside. Windlifter pulled up short as he was greeted with identical smiles. Maru’s expression was entirely normal, and caused no more discomfort than rain did. The dangerous smirk on Blade’s face was not normal, looked almost predatory, and made Windlifter throw his gears in reverse in a prompt attempt at a speedy escape.

     “Ooooh, no. Get back in here.” Windlifter paused at the threshold, briefly pondering the odds of beating Blade out into the air, before deciding that it was not quite worth jogging a gear loose trying to race Blade’s reflexes. He rolled quietly back inside, hearing Maru move to shut the door behind him.

     “How did that party at the lodge go?” Blade was still grinning. He was still grinning? Chrystler, no wonder his face hurt so much.

    “Hn.” Windlifter kept it cryptic and simple. Too bad Blade had seen through him years ago.

     “Don’t give me that. I heard the Coyote made an encore appearance.” Blade and Maru shared a look, and Windlifter could see he had been outed.

     “I have many stories about Coyote.”

     “Yeah, but he only eats his own tires in one of ‘em, Windy.” Maru was sipping on something that smelled distinctly stronger than anything he should be having. He was also not being helpful.

     “No one else caught on at all? Really?” Blade was a combination of baffled and highly amused. None of them had heard real Native American legends before? Seriously.

     “Nope. You should have seen Lil’ D’s face. I wonder if she remembered to breathe.”

     “Dipper has heard all of these before. I can’t imagine how she still believes every one of them.” Blade twirled his rotors idly, slowly. Windlifter cocked a brow slightly. It had been a while since the air boss was in quite such a good mood.

     “So have all the Smokejumpers. They hang on every word. I think Dynamite may be comin’ around.”

     “I can’t read Cabbie. He’s either seen through the trolling, or he just stops listening right before each of Windlifter’s stories stop making sense.”

     “We should sell books of ‘em at the Fusel Lodge’s gift garage.”

     “I can see how that could come back to bite us real hard.”

     “Yeah, I guess.”

     Windlifter just listened. These two had long ago taken varying degrees of delight in how many people would believe the stories he put forth as legitimate. In reality, he did have a trunkful of truly legit legends, and couple trunkfuls of… stuff embellished with a great deal of creative liberty.

     He had once been told that people were willing to believe anything they already perceived as the truth, no matter how unconscious. You expect the Native American to tell you stories about nature? You’d believe whatever they told you. Windlifter had tested this theory once, more than thirty years ago. He hadn’t quite stopped yet.

     Maru believed all of the first three stories Windlifter ever told him. Blade let him get through one before his highly tuned BS-o-Meter went off. Since then, they had learned which were real, which were fake, and Windlifter knew they took a great deal of pleasure watching other people struggle to tell the difference.

     “We should get Windy to tell Cad something about a spirit or whatever hiding its treasure in the lake and see how long it takes him to get a dredger out there.”

     “Thirty minutes. He’d fly them in himself.” Blade took a slow, languid sip before his eyes widened. “Even better, we should tell him the treasure is under the lodge. The stars predict its… right in the center of the main hall floor.” Maru shot Blade a wicked grin.

     “Drip is right. You do have an evil side.”

     “Maybe I just have an evil twin.” He said this with such a passive, deadpan stare that even Windlifter had to cough quietly to keep from laughing.

     “Two of you? The weight of your sarcasm would cause the planet to implode.”

     Windlifter lingered for a couple moments more before moving to leave them to their conversation. The topic was drifting towards the point where Windlifter wondered weather or not Blade had taken a couple sips of Maru’s dangerously potent brand of high-grade. He didn’t expect to move from the table without drawing Blade’s attention, but he let Windlifter get all the way to the hangar door.

     “Leaving so soon?”

     “The good ones don’t write themselves, Chief. He’s gotta sleep on the next of ‘em.”

     “Is someone going to spontaneously combust? Just give me a warning before you tell it, so that I can laugh in private.”

     “Trying to preserve you reputation, boss?”

     “Damn straight.”

     Spontaneous combustion, eh? That would be new. Windlifter filed the thought away for further use, right behind a handful of others he had stewing. One day, he’d bring out the big guns, just to watch Blade laugh for real, and in public. In the meantime, he’d let them speculate.

     Windlifter turned back slightly when he reached the hangar door, the most imperceptible of smiles on his face.

     “You should hear the one where Deere regurgitates his own engine in order teach the first vehicles medicine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually written almost immediately after I wrote Ryker. It's been sitting on my hard drive since, and I still feel kinda iffy about its completeness. It may be outside my skill to portray accurately.
> 
> Did anyone else feel that Windlifter's character played really, really hard into the Native American stereotype? My friend (beta) and I did, until we watched it again and noticed that out of everybody, Maru was sporting a big-ass grin while Windlifter was telling that Coyote story. Also, note the abrupt change in his speech pattern when they're actually working a fire. Our headcannon now says that Windlifter is the world's biggest troll; he knows the real legends, sure, but most of the time he just starts a story and makes it up as he goes.
> 
> Windlifter, Captain of Team Trololol. Get that image out of your head, now. :3


	8. War Stories - Avalanche and Maru

Maru knew it was bad when Dynamite called for a pickup. After working with her for several years, nothing in his memory ever recalled a time when her voice had taken on the frantic shrillness that came over the radio. He’d heard her during an active burn over, injured, trapped, and exhausted, sometimes all at once; she was calm and collected on the air, all the time. This however, on the Dynamite scale from Meh to Oh My Slag, was up there somewhere by The World is Ending.

They had only been in response for a handful of minutes; Blade had requested ground attack, Cabbie had made it happen, and away they went. A routine jump, in all respects. It took only seconds more before Dynamite was calling for an air evac; apparently her own tires were not even on the ground yet. Cabbie bit out coordinates, and even through the radio Maru could hear his engines roar as he made a hard bank back around. Blade spared no time in peeling Windlifter from his holding pattern to assist, and the emergency traffic was thick enough that halfway through, Maru had to remember that there was an active brushfire out there, also.

Maru pinged Cabbie on a private channel as he prepped his workspace. Best know what he was dealing with before it landed in his forks, and who better to get it from that the one who watched it happen.

“Both the kid’s parachutes failed to deploy.” Cabbie’s voice was clipped and tight.

“ _Both_?” Maru had to roll that idea around in his head for it to sink in. A single parachute failure was uncommon. For an emergency chute, which had to be packed by a certified rigger, to fail as well was almost unheard of.

“Well, one and a half. First chute failed entirely, neither canopy caught any air, so he cut it and tried the emergency one. Only one of those double-canopies opened. Looked like it pulled just enough drag to stop him from permanently engraving his pieces into the landscape.” Cabbie had years of practice making clear, concise calls during emergencies, but Maru could hear the stress boiling under the surface of his calmness all the same. “At least he hit a dirt hill instead of that large boulder a couple yards east of him.”

There was only one “he” in the jumpers with a heavy-duty chute.

Maru winced. Avalanche didn’t use a double-canopy parachute for the fun of it. He was barely more than half Blade’s height but about two tons or so _heavier_. From a jumping altitude, at his weight and compact size, he would have come in at an absolutely ballistic pace, half a chute or not. Even if he were soon aware of the critical failure of all his chutes, he would have descended far past the point where anyone on the jump team could assist. As the last one to unload from Cabbie’s hatch, it was a miracle that he hadn’t crashed into someone else on his way down. Maru was at least relieved Blade didn’t attempt a mid air catch. The boss had scary good aim, but in the event that Blade successfully grappled any part of Avalanche with the hoist, Maru would have two patients instead of one; either the force of Avalanche’s fall would rip the hoist right out of Blade’s hatch, or he would pull Blade to the ground with him.

Maru heard Cabbie land on the airstrip before picking out the distinct rumbling sound of Windlifter approaching the base. The warplane hit the tarmac hard enough for Maru to be worried that he may have jarred something loose. He barely eased off the throttle as he taxied to the end of the runway before flipping an abrupt about-face to watch Windlifter bring Avalanche in. Maru retrieved the tow hook, and waited for the Sikorsky to set his load down.

Maru hissed through his teeth as he gave a quick once over of the damage. His entire front half was encrusted with soil (presumably what remained of the hill that had broken his fall). Avalanche’s dozer blade was _bent_ , which spoke volumes to the velocity at which he had been introduced to the ground. Similarly, the hydraulics in his lift arms were heavily damaged, showing signs of severe compression. The booms of his lift arms themselves had dislocated, deformed in places, and Maru could see several bolts that had either come loose or been shattered. All these systems were leaking hydraulic fluid at an alarming rate. His cassis itself looked like it had compacted in places. His right tread was dislodged from the drive wheels, and the entire left tread assembly was in severe need of realignment. Fortunately, Maru could see little more that superficial damage to his canopy; he may be unconscious, but it did not appear that his injuries were, by themselves, severe enough to kill him. But he had all of them, and if Maru didn’t stop all that bleeding…

He raced to undo the harness straps and get Avalanche on the tow hook. He was glad Windlifter had placed him as close to the bay as his massive rotor span would allow. With the damage to his treads, Avalanche was almost impossible to roll, never mind the decompression of his hydraulic drive system. Windlifter assisted him, and with his help Maru was able to get the injured track loader into the hangar work floor. The Skycrane lingered for just a moment, gazing from Avalanche to Maru, and to Cabbie still looming on the tarmac, before returning to fire attack.

Maru opened Avalanche’s engine compartment door. The impact had jarred several wires loose, as well as most of his oil and fluid hoses. Several mounting lugs had been sheared. Avalanche was leaking a great deal of vital fluids, but his engine itself was remarkably intact. Maru would run a diagnostic later, but it looked like the most essential parts of his core had made it through relatively safely.

He’d live. Which was good, because while Cabbie was under the outer awning of his hangar, currently minding his own business, Maru knew he was keeping a close eye on the proceedings in the repair bay. He was worried. They all were, but only Cabbie currently had enough free time to brood over it. Last thing Maru needed was for him to hover about like some giant, infernal bird.

Maru went to work stymieing the leaking hoses. He clamped the leaking lines in this engine compartment, taking the time immediately after to replace the hoses with undamaged ones before moving to stop what bled from his chassis. He had to grab a cutting torch to get at the deeper lines. The same heavy armor that had likely prevented Avalanche from being killed immediately upon impact made it difficult to reach more vulnerable components. It took Maru longer than he liked to reach the hoses near Avalanche’s undercarriage; there was more damage here than he’d thought, but with the lines repaired that lead to his engine, he wasn’t in any immediate danger of bleeding to death. Maru was relieved to see that there was very little actual framework damage to the track loader’s chassis. He checked for any weakening in the metal and soldered what cracks and strains he found.

With his lines repaired or replaced and no longer leaking oil or coolant, Maru moved to focus on his hydraulics. All the Smokejumpers minus Dynamite had extensive amounts of hydraulic lines and systems in their bodies, and Maru found himself burning through a great deal of his supply repairing Avalanche’s damaged hoses.

Maru sighed as he inspected Avalanche’s lift arms. Dozer blade and chassis aside, possibly the single strongest part of him, structurally. Given the severe damage, it appeared that Avalanche had managed to impact the earth blade first, which probably saved his life. Brawny sucker or no, if he had broken his fall with his canopy, with the rest of his weight coming in behind, he wouldn’t have even survived the ride back. His booms showed the damage that came with absorbing his momentum, namely buckling towards the fore, near where the blade attached. His press might be strong enough to return them to their original shape, but he wouldn’t know until he got them off the kid and over there. Maru was really worried about the hydraulic pistons. They gave his lift arms their impressive strength, and Avalanche’s were particularly thick and heavy. He wasn’t sure if he had any large enough for his specs, and they had to be able to withstand the brutal amounts of stress Avalanche put them through on a daily basis. The alloy itself was easy enough to replicate; he might have to fabricate some from scratch.

Maru didn’t even notice how late he’d worked until he heard Blade clear his throat from the hangar threshold. Maru set back from the press; it was time consuming, but he was gradually bending the first heavy boom back into place. Blade gave Avalanche a slow once over, face almost entirely indifferent. Maru, however, had known him long enough to be able to read the unreadable.

“He should pull through alright. Lucky thing Dynamite called as soon as she did, or he may have bled out before he got here; almost every soft, non-rigid piece of him had ruptured, it seemed.” He was sure Blade could tell; he hadn’t yet finished mopping up the hydraulic fluid from the floor.

“How long, you think?” Maru was sure Blade was passing on any information he had to Dynamite. Several of the jumpers could be hyper and aggressive on a regular basis. Add adrenaline and worry, and the group was probably close to being classifiably rabid.

“I can repair his lift arms, but it’s slow going. Gotta make him some new hydraulic tubes for his damaged pistons. I have another dozer blade that will match his specs with a little alteration. Can’t even believe that it bent like that, never seen anything like it. Scratches and dents aside, everything else critical is practically done. Still gotta realign his treads, though.”

Blade gave a soft ‘hn’ and nodded slightly, his eyes having barely left Avalanche since his arrival. The track loader looked smaller when not brandishing a blade on his front.

“Keep me posted, Maru.”

Maru snorted. That went without saying.

“You got it.”

 

* * *

 

It felt like digging his way out of mud. With his mind. Even his thoughts felt sodden and heavy, and it seemed like an eternity before his eyes actually opened as he wanted them to. He had to blink (and one of those ‘blinks’ felt like he had actually just gone back to sleep for a minute) to clear his vision, and it improved slowly. He waited another moment for the room to stop spinning around him, and gave a groan of frustration when the world refused to fully sharpen into focus.

“You awake, kid?” Maru was surprised to hear Avalanche rouse from unconsciousness. He expected him to be out for at least a couple days. Would be more merciful, too, because any one of these injuries could be excruciatingly painful.

“M-ru?” Was that _his_ voice? Even with effort, it came out so quiet. Avalanche growled to clear his throat, but even that was soft and indistinct. Then the world spun again, and he decided that it was too exhausting to fix. There were other things to worry about, like why he felt so achingly numb all over.

“You know it. Welcome back to the land of the living.” Maru moved from where he was repairing Avalanche’s tread belt so that he could see him.

“I c-n’t move.”

“Nope, no you can’t. I’ve disabled the drive to both your treads so I can retread and align them. Your blade was wrecked, in a spectacular fashion I might add, so you’re getting another, and I had to remove both your booms for repair. I’m crafting you more hydraulic pistons as we speak; hopefully I can reassemble everything tomorrow.” Maru soon realized that tomorrow was today. These overnighters were starting to become routine.

“Is th-t why I f-el numb?”

“Possibly, but that is sure better than the alternative.” Avalanche gave a grunt to concede the point. He counted himself fortunate to have stayed unconscious through what may have otherwise been pain not meant to be felt outside of hell.

“-s that wh- I c-n’t talk?”

“No, but I wouldn’t force that issue too hard. Most of the rest of your systems check out, so that will probably heal with rest.” That, and Maru didn’t think he’d heard Avalanche use anything resembling an inside voice, ever. It had been a handful of years now, and everyone just assumed that Avalanche had simply forgotten how to not yell at some point in his life.

Avalanche gave a soft, slow sigh and settled in for the wait. The sun was coming up, and the slight predawn light turned the tarmac a deep blue. The numbness was starting to give way, and his injuries were beginning to ache uncomfortably. He set his jaw, and elected not to make a peep. Maru went back to repairing his damaged tread belt, and Avalanche could hear him humming quietly to himself as he worked.

His head hurt, probably a concussion, but he fought through it to collect his scrambled thoughts. It was hard to remember exactly how he got here. Clearly while working. A slight breeze rustled the blades of grass outside, and Avalanche’s memory came crashing back through him hard enough to force him to swallow a gasp. There was a point, during the fall, where he noticed that he was close enough to see every blade of grass on that hill. The panic that had reached unbearable levels when he’d pulled his chutes left him utterly, and all he’d thought before he’d hit the ground was “huh, well this kinda sucks.” He heaved another sigh that was one part exhaustion and another part dizzying relief. On some level, he didn’t think he would survive the fall. Avalanche eyed the pieces of himself that were strewn all over the hangar. Slightly unnerving, seeing that much of himself not currently a part of, erm, _himself_ , but much better than being dead.

Avalanche could feel his exhaustion canoodling with his injuries, and the resulting seductive beckon of unconsciousness nearly did him in. He blinked hard and gave a quiet snarl. He wanted to wait, to see his team, to tell them he was okay and stop worrying, especially Dynamite. If anyone happened to over torque their engine from apprehension, it would be her. Maybe it was a team leader thing. Oh hey, the blackness on the edges of his vision was back…

Maru could hear the subtle changes in his breathing, which probably meant he was drifting in and out of consciousness. Hopefully he could convince him to go back to sleep; pass the time faster for him if he did. He completed the heavy tread belt and set in next to Avalanche’s refurbished wheels; he’d put those back on as soon as he finished with these infuriating hydraulics.

Maru heard the sound of a hangar door slide open, and looked at the clock. Six thirty-five, on the nose, which meant that it was Blade up for coffee. He soon saw a small reflection off of almost immaculate red and white livery as Blade made his way towards the main hangar. He shot a glance over to the repair bay, and Maru watched his eyes widen a fraction, presumably crossing glances with Avalanche, and he cut a sharp ninety-degree turn towards the bay.

“Good morning, groundpounder.” That group nickname held new meaning, now. He remembered turning just in time to see the eruption of dirt that followed on the aft of Avalanche's plummet to the earth. Blade gave him one of those slight, soft smiles that was as close to an outward display of concern as Blade ever got.

“Morn-ng, Chi-f,” Avalanche gave Blade a tired grin.

“You had us worried, for a while.” Understatement of the century. Blade would lobby for a plaque.

“Nuth-n really. Just lev-ling hills w-th my face.” Blade allowed himself to smile for real, and could see Maru grinning widely as he worked.

“That was quite a splendid nosedive. You could give fighter jets lessons.”

“You should se- m- barr-l roll.” Avalanche gave the most exhausted version of his usual slag-eating smirk Blade’d had ever seen.

Maru looked up from where he was diligently measuring a new hydraulic piston with a caliper. Lets see the kid wear these suckers out. He was also mildly surprised that Cabbie hadn’t come to hover yet. He looked that the clock again. He’d give it ‘till seven.

“If his sense of humor is still intact, I think I’ve done my job right.”

“Looks like you’ve fixed that volume problem with his voice, too.”

“I take no responsibility for that, but I can’t say I’m totally unhappy with it.”

Avalanche grinned at them before his face fell a bit. He frowned, worried. The rest of the team was clearly still out, but he knew nothing about the fire conditions. Was it contained? Partially contained? Advancing? It could have been upgraded to a campaign fire, at this point. They would have to carry his workload, and that caused an uncomfortable weight to settle in his tank. He should be _there_. With _them_.

Blade read his expression.

“They’re still out in the field. Fire got to about two hundred acres before they contained it. Since it was down on the valley floor, and the winds were rather mild, it wasn’t all that aggressive. I doubt they’ll be out far past noon.” Avalanche gave a quiet nod and seemed to relax, and Maru got the feeling that he would not be awake for too much longer. Blade seemed to get that idea too, and gave Maru a slight nod.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. You need anything?”

Maru wanted to say something snarky along the lines of  “a larger budget, pretty please,” but he’d spare Avalanche the resulting conversation.

“If you’d save me some coffee, that’d be great.” He felt like he would be able to drink gallons of the stuff right now. Or just bathe in it. Yes, one whole bathtub of coffee to go, please.

“I will, but I’d much rather you get some rest when you’re done.” Blade had seen Maru pass out from sleep deprivation once before. It was both hilarious and worrisome.

Maru snorted.

“I’m not makin’ any promises.” Blade shot him a knowing smirk and took his leave. Maru gave a wry smile; as the leader of the Works His Way Through Normal Nighttime Hours Club, Blade new better than to push the topic.

Avalanche sighed; he didn’t feel so heavy anymore, on the inside. His team was alright, even without him. He wasn’t foolish enough to imagine that he carried more than his share of the work, but he did carry _his_ share of the work. They were now one member down, so everyone else would have to hustle to do both their part and his. That didn’t sit well with him, but there wasn’t any helping it. He felt a little pride, though. They could handle it. His team could handle _anything_.

“Take a nap for a while. It’s going to take some time for me to put back all the pieces of you that I’ve got laying about all over the place.”

“B-t—” He wanted to be awake when they got back. He wanted to say “hey,” and “thank you,” and “I’m so sorry…”

“No buts. You’ve got at least six hours before the crew gets back. Trust me, Dynamite will book it as fast as her tires will take her, with the rest of your hoodlum crewmates right on her tailpipe.” Maru was emphatic, and after meeting his gaze in a match of wills that he knew he was destined to lose (the guy could stare down Blade with nary a flinch, after all), Avalanche relented. He felt his exhaustion welling up to claim him, carrying him towards the warm bliss of unconsciousness faster than he would like. He stopped trying to fight it, but even so…

“Th-nks, Maru.” His voice came out as little more than a tired whisper, and he was asleep almost before he was done speaking. Maru gave a soft chuckle as he heard him begin to snore quietly.  Setting the freshly minted hydraulic tube aside, he put the second boom onto the press. Might as well finish this before his shop became filled with noisy, anxious Smokejumpers.

“It’s what I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because I'm fond of Avalanche. Volume aside, seems like a fun person to hang out with. Also, the kind of burly friend you call when you need to move some furniture down the stairs. :D
> 
> So Blade is an AgustaWestland AW139, with a height of more than twelve feet and a weight of a little over four tons. Avalanche is a Bobcat T870, which has a height of only seven feet, but weighs over six tons. 'Lanche is definitely the largest on the ground crew, but that lets you know how heavy all the smokejumpers are. Also how brawny poor Cabbie is. Longtime readers will realize that this is an edit to the original posting where I said Blade was heavier than 'Lanche; turns out I was using the wrong weight rating for Blade (I was using his gross weight instead of his "empty" weight, the former of which includes all available cargo).


	9. War Stories - Ryker & Blade

Blade didn’t know quite what he expected when Patch announced the arrival of the TMST investigator, but having to stare up at a massive, bulky ARFF was not what he had in mind. Not gonna lie, he was anticipating a government paper pusher, not a guy who was built and outfitted for active duty. He met Blade’s gaze from clear across the base, and adopted a brisk pace crossing the tarmac in his direction. With him was his aide, a forklift with a much less intimidating but equally unamused stare as his boss.

He had known it was only a matter of time before they showed up. His own crash aside, having Dusty go down in a national park was sure to draw their attention. Patch, as their equivalent of tower control, logged everything that happened. Still, inside of a day? This was quite a speedy response, especially from the feds.

The investigator nodded crisply to Cabbie and Windlifter as he passed them, and to Dipper as she turned slightly from her post in front of the repair bay. The Smokejumpers all watched from the safety of the main hangar threshold, and Blade could hear them whisper to each other as he approached.

“Whoa.” Drip was halfway hiding behind Dynamite.

“No kidding.” Blackout looked very much like he was going to forcefully trade places with Drip. Or hide behind Avalanche.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone able to scowl like Blade before.”

“And he just got here, I don’t think he’s really even angry yet.”

“I BET THIS IS WHAT HIS HAPPINESS LOOKS LIKE!” No mistaking who that was.

“I wonder if his eyes can kill people, like Blade’s can.” Pinecone _was_ hiding behind Avalanche, peeking from around his canopy.

“Don’t drive between them; the force of their combined disapproval will suck your soul out.” Drip and Blackout both nodded sagely. Blade could not have been any more grateful than when Dynamite shushed them all with a fierce hiss. If he could hear their poor attempt at keeping quiet, no doubt so could this guy.

The huge crash tender rolled up on him, stopping just close enough to ensure Blade’s attention, but not enough to crowd his space. He wondered idly if it was a tactic.

“Chief Ranger.” A statement, not a question.

“Indeed.” He didn’t feel like correcting the agent yet. This guy could turn out to be a keelhauling crankshaft.

“I am Ryker of the Transportation Management Team, and I am here in regards to a pair of incidents that occurred two days ago.” 

Of course he was. 

“You refer to Crophopper’s crash.”

“Yes, and your own.” Blade could still feel the tightness of the freshly soldered injuries on his left flank. Maru was still working the kid over in his shop, and hadn’t had time to smooth the warping or apply fresh paint.

“According to the time on your logs, your incident occurred first, so we will begin there, if you do not mind.”

“Please.” Blade got the feeling that he didn’t have a choice, one way or another. Even so, he was far more comfortable discussing his own wounds than someone else’s, especially if that someone else was still out cold in the repair bay.

Ryker’s eyes went to the burn pattern on Blade’s side.

“Is that the injury that caused the incident in question?”

“It is.”

“My apologies. Under what circumstances were you exposed to temperatures capable of causing such burns?”

“I’m a wildland helitanker. I fight fire for a living.” Blade found he had to fight very, very hard to keep any sarcasm from his voice. He’d give a piece of his mind to anyone, but pissing off government agents tended to cause more problems than it was worth.

“Yes, from the air.” Ryker gave him a look that said this should be obvious. “So, under what circumstances would a helitanker be exposed to such high temperatures for the prolonged amount of time required to cause extensive burns on your flank panels?”

“Teamwork.” Blade knew he wouldn’t make any friends with that vague of an answer.

Ryker frowned.

“You will have to explain in detail.”

“My job as Chief requires me to safeguard my crew, Mr. Ryker. Whether airborne, land-bound, or otherwise.”

“Explain.” If the agent frowned any harder his eyes would be closed. Blade stifled a sigh, and decided to bite the bullet.

“My pain tolerance is much higher than his.”

Blade saw something flicker in Ryker’s countenance, face relaxing ever so slightly, and the air boss bit back a smirk. Rigid government enforcer he may be, but he still knew active service, it seemed. Only another online firefighter understood quite what Blade meant, and Ryker appeared to be no exception. It was the kind of thing that happened only when everybody’s chips were down and a scene descended to hell in a bucket. His eyes wandered over Blade’s injury again, contemplating.

“A member of your ground crew?” His voice carried less of an edge. Not much, but enough to let Blade know that he’d struck something in him.

“Ground _ed_ crew.” Blade felt his eyes slipping towards Maru’s hangar, and he shut that motion down as quickly as possible. Not fast enough, though, as the ARFF followed his gaze towards Dusty in the bay.

“The logs on Crophopper’s incident measure over twelve hours after yours.”

“They are unrelated, yes.” ‘Because I succeeded,’ he hoped his expression read. Ryker gave a quiet ‘hrn’ and an almost imperceptible nod. Message received and understood.

Ryker’s aide flipped over several sheets on his clipboard, tapping his pen against something on a document. Ryker regarded it briefly, before something there captured his attention. The frown was back.

“His incident happened at night. What occurred during Crophopper’s flight that caused his crash?”

“Critical equipment failure.” Ryker gave Blade a look that clearly wanted more than that. “Crophopper had previous damage to his gearbox.”

“He was allowed to fly with a damaged gearbox?”

“It was not critical, provided the RMP of his engine remained in the lower eighty percent of his maximum.”

“Provided he did not redline his engine, pushing his VNE speed.”

“Correct.”

“What sort of activity was he engaging in that would require him to push his throttle?”

“Fire suppression.”

“At night?”

“Yes.”

Ryker’s eyes narrowed.

“I will assume you are aware of fire suppression regulations regarding nighttime air attack procedures?”

“I am.”

“And yet you authorized this?”

And there it was. No matter, no regrets. And no delay, else this guy would notice.

“I did.” Behind Ryker, Blade saw Windlifter stiffen, his rotors rotating a jolting quarter turn in surprise. Blade didn’t dare risk shooting him a glare to keep his mouth shut; the agent’s eyes were good and keen. Fortunately, Cabbie knew well enough to give Windlifter a firm, silent shush. The Skycrane closed his mouth slowly, reluctantly, and Blade furiously ignored the pointed stare he sent him. He knew Windlifter would force a conversation about it in the future.

“What suppression tactic required him to stress his engine?”

“He was taking on water for a drop.”

Ryker cocked a brow slightly.

“Water. Not retardant?” Ryker was clearly no fool; taking on water at night was half the reason aircrews were grounded at sundown. The risk of an accident was incredibly high.

“Our water lines at base were down last night. We were unable to load retardant. We still don’t have any pressure, actually; there may possibly be a rupture in the line.”

“I passed no municipal water district conducting repairs on my way in, nor any signs of a water line breach.” Ryker looked at his aide, who shook his head. The investigator seemed to reconsider something, the frown easing somewhat into something more closely resembling slight suspicion.

“Where is the control valve for the base’s water from the main line?” The way the question was asked, Ryker seemed to know already. He’d probably made a note of it on his way here. Formality, maybe? Investigator’s trap? Good try; Blade knew everything about his base.

“At the Lodge. Above ground, on the side of the building.” Ryker nodded, and Blade stifled another smirk. He _did_ know, the bastard.

“And an in-line lever denotes normal flow to the base, yes?”

“Negative, the lever is perpendicular to the pipe when it flows to us.”

Ryker looked at him sharply. _Very_ sharply. Blade felt his smugness begin to crumble a bit.

“Perpendicular?”

“Yes.”

Ryker’s eyes narrowed, but Blade got the distinct feeling it wasn’t at him. The massive agent scowled, and Blade could hear his engine rumble up into a low, growling idle before he gave a clipped sigh, schooling his reaction back down to a professional neutrality. Something was up, and it caused Blade’s skin to crawl a bit.

Someone else had arrived on base; Blade could see Windlifter and Dipper turn to look at them. Blade himself could see nothing around Ryker’s bulk. Were those huge tires entirely necessary?

“E-excuse me?” Ryker closed his mouth on whatever he was going to say next; he turned and moved, and Blade could see the lodge’s concierge sitting behind him. He watched the little forklift give a tiny flinch as the huge investigator scrutinized him, giving him a cold once-over before deciding he was of little importance to the task at hand.

“Chief Ranger—“ The forklift started.

“Just ‘Blade’, please.” He rolled forwards until he was just outside the forklift’s personal space, causing him to look Blade in the face, relaxing ever so slightly. Huh, that actually worked. He’d have to use it more often. The concierge shifted a bit nervously, and kept looking back behind him as if someone would come leaping out of the bushes.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting, but we have a bit of a problem.”

“Can this wait?” Blade did _not_ care about issues at the lodge right now. Didn’t Cad say there was a type 1 engine posted down there now? Surely this was as much their problem as his.

Ryker seemed to agree. Go figure, common ground.

“This is an official TMST Incident Investigation—“

“Which is why I am here.” He was wringing his forks together. He seemed to be gaining confidence, though. And ball bearings; Ryker did not look like he was used to being interrupted. Blade knew the feeling. “You see, Mr. Spinner had me turn on the Grand Fusel Lodge’s roof sprinklers last night, to protect it from the fire.”

“I saw, they were remarkably high-pressure. Cad certainly spared no expense.” Good to know that at least part of his repurposed budget went to fire prevention, of sorts.

“T-that’s the thing. They are not high-pressure. Not without, erm, help. A boost, you might say.”

The silence thereafter spoke volumes. The realization hit Blade like a tree to the face, and somehow hurt more. For a moment, Blade thought it was hard for him to breathe, until he realized that he was just feeling his caustic, scalding rage settle in his throat. In an attempt at not cursing hard enough to peel his paint again and give Maru a run for his money, he settled for a low growl, the sheer contempt contained with in it clearly echoed in the faces of his crew.

“I knew it.” Cabbie’s voice was a low hiss.

Blade kicked up both his engines, the sound of their slowly loudening whine only further heating the fluids in his lines, his adrenaline rising with the RPM of his rotor assembly. He had several things to say to Cad. Right now. Heaven forbid he find him relaxing down there, because he would put all four of his rotors down Spinner’s throat and _twist_ …

He heard several massive tires roll up next to him, and he killed his engines. Chrystler, he still had to deal with the TMST agent.

He was surprised, then, to look to his side and see an expression that probably mirrored his own. It was masked by that same hard, neutral authority that Ryker had worn for the entirety of this engagement, but Blade had felt it enough in his own face to recognize it. The investigator didn’t have the emotional attachment (and, deep down, Blade knew that’s what it was) to the base, and the people here, but evidently this situation rubbed hard enough against his acceptable protocols to elicit a reaction.

Whatever standoffishness Blade had harbored against the ARFF sloughed away. Angry on his behalf? On his crew’s behalf? That went a long way towards vouching for someone’s character, in Blade’s book. It must have been a tough choice for him, to move from suppression to investigation. He eyed the blue and gold Maltese cross emblazoned proudly on Ryker’s flank.

Blade heard the agent’s engine rumble up into gear again, and his aide shot him a look of veiled surprise. Ryker ignored it, and Blade found himself face to face with a scowl that, once again, he did not think was meant for him.

“Chief Ranger, I will require your self inspection and recent repair reports, as well as your standing orders.” He was abrupt, hasty, as if he suddenly had more pressing issues to attend to.

“You may have mine, and we can supply standing orders, but most of Crophopper’s reports will have to come from his mechanic.”

Ryker seemed to find this perfectly acceptable.

“I will return for those, then. I am familiar with Crophopper’s mechanic; we will obtain those ourselves. In the meantime, I must see to the rest of my investigation.” He pinned the concierge under his gaze. “I take it Mr. Cad Spinner is currently posted at the Grand Fusel Lodge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Ryker turned and, with a curt nod to both Blade and his team, sped off at a markedly brisker pace than he had arrived. With his strobes on. His poor assistant had to rush to catch up.

Blade felt a borderline feral grin slither across his face, apparently startling enough in appearance that it caused most of his coworkers to cringe out of the way. He pushed it to the side, and restarted his engines. If the federal investigator wanted to speak to Cad, _right now_ , Blade would have to be dead in order to miss it.

“Maru.” He pinged him on the radio.

“Yeah?” 

“I’m gonna head down to the lodge.”

“Really?” He could bottle Maru’s surprise and sell it, it was so thick. Blade’s contempt of that place was no secret.

“I do believe that finally, after years of forcing us to put up with his slag, Cad has finally run afoul of someone with more authority that him. He’s about to get his paint flayed off, bumper removed and shoved down his intake and out his tailpipe, and I will be there to watch.”

Blade could almost feel Maru’s fierce sneer match his own. Longtime friends, and all that. He rose into the air, stored his landing gear and took off after the TMST Crash Investigator. He planned on perching somewhere that afforded the best view of the TMST throwing the book at Cad, and Ryker seemed like he had a _lot_ of heavy, brutal law books.

He felt that terrible, cruel grin sliding back on, and he did nothing to hide it.

“So you better break out that high-grade I know you have hidden away somewhere. Tonight, I’m gonna sit out back and drink my motojito.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I promised someone that Cad would get what's coming to him. However, my ability to write seems to have died a painful death this week; there will be a part two when my skill rises from the afterlife.
> 
> Because Ryker deserves my best while I have him rip Cad Spinner three new exhaust ports. :3
> 
> Words n' stuff!
> 
> ARFF: Aircraft Rescue and Fire Fighting vehicle. Like an Abrams tank, but full of 3000 gallons of water and foam solution. Ryker is an Oshkosh Striker 3000, the coolest of the cool.
> 
> VNE: One of an aircraft's various V-speeds. VNE means 'never exceed', and is often colored red on an aircraft's speed indicator. This is the speed at which an aircraft becomes unstable in the air.
> 
> Type 1 Engine: Your typical municipal structural fire engine. Engine types range from one through five, but types three through five are usually used only for wildland firefighting.
> 
> There are typos in here, hiding like ninjas. When I find them, they will get fixed.


	10. War Stories - Ryker & Spinner

He had looked right at it. He had looked right at that pipe, clearly large enough to supply water to more than just the lodge, and seen very little amiss. The strange, vague markings on the valve and line had bothered him, but that was for a building inspector; out of his jurisdiction, and he had more pressing issues to contend with at the base. Even so, old habits died hard; when his assistant had come back from his pit stop to find Ryker inspecting water mains in log buildings he had smirked, and suggested that the crash tender probably needed a vacation something fierce.

Ryker had to settle the ravenous RMP of his engine when merely the thought of taking leave, when there was _work to do_ , made him seethe dangerously. It could not be good for his fluid pressure.

He should not be so angry. He’d encountered far more egregious code violations than diverting water from an airstrip. Inadequate emergency procedures, unregulated and untrained tower control, that one party thrown on a landing strip (complete with fireworks), just to name a few.

Even so, that small part of him, the personal part that obediently sat quietly while he worked, was noticeably more active within his mind. _He screwed you over_ , it prodded. Not me, he mulled. Not my line of work anymore. He’d traded protecting a district for protecting a country, and never looked back. _Your brothers, then_ , it poked harder. _Your brothers and sisters who still roll when the siren goes off._ The Maltese crosses on either flank burned, and he still remembered the adrenaline, wheels moving so fast he didn’t remember there was solid tarmac underneath them, the smell of smoke and foam and fuel. He growled. His steel mask was slipping, and he did not like it.

His assistant was still trying to catch up, and, with great difficulty and a deep breath that came out more like a hiss, Ryker eased off his engine. He gave a clipped, if heartfelt, apology; his aide merely gave a small nod as he gasped for breath.

That was rude, and unprofessional. Ryker made a mental note to insist on paying for coffee next time they made a stop.

He schooled his face back to his usual stern façade, and promptly shoved his personal vendetta into a corner for it to stay, or else. His tires touched the smooth cobblestones of the Grand Fusel Lodge driveway, and what few people present moved most promptly out of his way. Most everyone seemed to be an employee, except for one large white SUV with a crisp green park logo and a beautifully immaculate paint job.

Ryker heard the deep, pulsing sound of a set of powerful rotors, and in his rear view mirrors he could see the Piston Peak Air Attack Chief set down on a helipad in the uppermost levels of the lodge. His personality gave a quiet sneer from its corner, and he gave it another vicious shove. What the helitanker did or watched was none of his business.

Ryker gave a loud ‘whoop _whoop_ ’ of his siren as he approached the park superintendent, and he heard his aide click his pen. He had loads of questions, and heaven forbid it take him long to get some answers. 

* * *

 

He did not have time for this.

Cad frowned as he watched the agent blaze across the yard towards him. He’d heard that an Incident Investigator from the TMST was sniffing about, but that he’d headed up towards the fire base. Good thing, too; that fire had gotten so far out of control, something had to be wrong. What did he pay them for, if not to put the wet stuff on the red stuff?

The agent stopped right in front of him, close enough that Cad rocked back on his wheels before he could stop himself. Well, that was rude. He also didn’t like how it forced him to look up at the guy.

Part of him also made a note that this agent was flippin’ _huge_. The hell did he eat, raw iron ore?

“Uh, can I help you?” He really hoped not. This mess wasn’t going to clean itself up, and hell if any of his employees had an eye for sophisticated details. That, and this guy looked like the exact opposite of fun-to-talk-to.

“Mr. Spinner, I am Ryker of the Transportation Management Safety Team, and I have some questions regarding a pair of incidents in conjunction with the Piston Peak Valley Fire that occurred yesterday.”

“I’m sure you do, and I wonder why you’re down here. You’ve already been to the fire base, yeah? That’s their business, not mine. Whatever they told you, you should probably turn right back around and take it up with them.” Cad didn’t know anything about any crash (and he knew it was a crash; the TMST was a large collection of ambulance-chasers, after all). It hadn’t happened at his lodge. He rather hoped it was Blade; sanctimonious chopper might actually shut his mouth once he got dirt in it.

“You are the park superintendent, are you not?”

“You betcha.” And don’t let anyone forget it.

“Then this _is_ your business, which makes you _my_ business.” Cad did not like being patronized. This was his lodge, and his park, and it was going to make him very, very popular (which lead to wealth, and everyone knew money was power). Except that it seemed every firefighter west of the Mississippi took an issue with that.

“Am I busy right now? Yes I am. Call my secretary, she’ll schedule you in.” If this guy were anyone else, Cad would just as soon never call him back, but a government agent might have contacts that could make his upward mobility somewhat more difficult.

“My time is limited, Mr. Spinner. It is in your best interest for this to happen now.”

“I don’t have time, as you can _clearly_ see.”

“Would you rather a warrant?”

Cad gave an indignant snort. Under what authority did this oversized water truck think he had the right? His eyes picked out several decals painted on the agent’s flanks that quite possibly denoted that he had it under his _own_ authority to do so. Cripes, out of all the investigators to send, and he had to get the one with rank.

“Fine, you have five minutes. Go.” Cad did not at all like the way the investigator stared at him. It reminded him of a certain uptight, unpleasant, filthy forest hippy of a helicopter.

“When did you become aware that there was a brushfire threatening the Lodge?”

“Pft, does that matter? I don’t keep track of every little campfire in the park.”

The TMST secretary scribbled something on his clipboard. Cad found the sound of his pen scratching on paper to be oddly irritating. Almost as irritating as that strange creaky-groany noise he’d been hearing for the past half hour.

“When were you first notified of a mandatory evacuation order issued for Piston Peak National Park?”

This investigation was sounding more like a police grilling. Cad got the inkling that the firefighters had diverted the agent by sic’ing him on Cad. Well, let’s just see how that went for them.

He heard the deep vibrating rumble of a helicopter. It was that massive green Indian spirit sage, or whatever; Blade’s big brawny tree hugger. Speaking of the red devil, he could see him up on one of the helipads on the upper floors. When the hell had he gotten up there? He moved over as the green one set down next to him on the helideck, and Cad could just imagine that sharp, mightier-than-thou sneer slithering all over the chopper chief’s face.

Here to watch, huh? Cad squashed a smirk. Sure, why not? He just wanted to see their faces when he refused to sign all those paychecks next week. Someone had to pay for the time he was wasting with this stunt. Karma could be a _bitch_.

“ ‘Mandatory,’ huh. Not even necessary. Look, if they’d stayed in the Lodge they’d all be safe. See, fire didn’t even cross the driveway.” That extra-large open space he’d agreed to had actually worked. “Sure would have been more fun than trying to drive out of here in the middle of the night with hundreds of other people.” The agent frowned at that. Erm, frowned _harder_. 

“ ‘With hundreds of other people.’ What is the occupancy rating for the Lodge?”

Was this guy deaf? Cad was pretty sure he’d just said that there had been whole slews of people attending the Lodge’s grand reopening. Might as well have been a parking lot in there. A fun, happening parking lot.

“From the front to back door, and ceiling to floor. Hard to have a grand reopening if it isn’t grand. The more the merrier, am I right? Of course I am.”

“The occupancy rating, Mr. Spinner.” If it were possible—and Cad didn’t think it was—this guy was even _less_ fun than Blade the Buzzkill.

“Oh, come on. You’re looking for an actual number? It’s a lodge! It fits at least twice as many people as it has rooms. Couples and families, and all of that.”

“If you cannot give me a figure, it should be posted—“

“Posted? No, no, no. I was very specific that anything to be hung on the walls goes through me. No useless clutter or tasteless décor.”

“Are you aware that the International Fire Code—“ 

“Fire code my muffler. You want fire protection? Take a good, hard look at the sprinklers on the roof. This is a log structure. Pure wood, Mr. Tyler—“

“Ryker.”

“Whatever. All that matters is that those puppies turned this place into a water feature last night. Looked like the Bellagio Fountains, let me tell you, and it caused this pure wood structure to survive the nonsense that was that inferno.”

“Sounds like your pressure may be adjusted too high.”

“Piffle. That’s what I wanted. It was too low, so I turned it up.” Water, water, everywhere. It had been glorious.

Shickshift, what _was_ that terrible sound?

“You turned it up.” The investigator looked unimpressed.

“Yeah. _I_ turned it up. Couldn’t get any decent help to do it.” Little stuck-up bellboy had the nerve to tell him ‘no.’ He had already turned the sprinklers _on_ , was it really so difficult to then turn them _up_ as well? Granted, Cad’d just about slipped a disc brake trying to throw the switch, and he was many times the little forklift’s size, but that’s the kind of work the help was _for_.

“What kind of sprinklers do you have, Mr. Spinner? Emergency sprinklers should not have a valve for boosting the pressure that can be accessed by non-firefighting personnel.” The scowl on the agent’s face was a borderline glare. “Where is the valve that controls pressure in the sprinkler system, Mr. Spinner?”

It was right about now that Cad got the feeling that he should have stopped talking a few minutes back. Something deep down told him it was for diverting the water from the main line. ‘The firefighters need that to make deodorant,’ or whatever the bellboy had said. Egads, was this his conscious? Get that out of here. He needed that mental space for ambition. And his current levels of ambition told him he was at the precipice of slippery, career-damaging slope. Best get out now, make this truck work for his questions.

“Your five minutes is up, Mr. Ryan.”

“Ryker.” 

“I don’t care. Are we done here? Yes we are.”

“We are nowhere near finished with this issue.”

“Why do you assume that I know anything? Mud and smoke and dirty dirt are not my cup of tea, _trust me_ , and I keep my stunning Luminous Blizzard paintjob as far from that nonsense as possible. All I’ve ever done is run some sprinklers, which is _entirely legal_.”

“Normally, yes. But I’ve gotten reports of a lack of water pressure at the air attack base stretching from last night to my investigation this afternoon. An emergency sprinkler or standpipe system should not allow any civilian to just tamper with it, not without at least triggering an alarm on the system. With that in mind, Mr. Spinner, _where is this valve that allowed you to increase water flow to your sprinklers_?”

“You’re the federal investigator here. Go ‘investigate’ for it. It won’t do you much good, it will look entirely normal—“

It was at about this time that the irritating groaning sound stopped and was replaced with the loud scream of tearing metal. A thick running pipe, part of the matrix that fed the roof sprinklers, ruptured explosively, filling a massive cone with flying shrapnel and water. Cad threw his gears in reverse; water might disrupt his wax, but he’d need a repaint if those sharp metal bits got him. The agent’s secretary, on the other side of him from the rupture, was shielded from the impromptu geyser by his large boss’ bulk, and was able to get out of dodge before he (or that paperwork) was soaked. The investigator was not so lucky, and Cad watched as he was engulfed by the deluge, completely disappearing into the spray. He heard a sound that might be small metal pieces bouncing off the agent’s plating.

He gave a quick glance around. There was no one within sight that wasn’t watching. Didn’t they have better things to do? Like figure out how to turn all that water off. It was going everywhere.

Turn it off. That valve lever; had he remembered to turn it off after last night? They’d shut down the sprinklers once the coast was clear this morning… oh, slag.

Cad heard the growl of his engine before he saw the investigator emerge from the water, rolling forward slowly until his back bumper just barely cleared the spray. This also put him squarely in Cad’s personal space. Cad flinched as he gave a slow exhale through all his vents, flinging water all over the place. He heard a click, and watched the secretary write furiously on that damned clipboard. The agent cleared his throat, clipped and tight and cold but still nowhere near as frightening as the glare on his face. If Cad found his gaze irritating before, it was downright apocalyptic now. Deep inside, his common sense tapped him on the flank and told him that if he didn’t want a federal investigator to return to the government with less than favorable reviews of him, he’d better start placating.

Wait, wasn’t the Secretary of the Interior still on grounds somewhere? Making the government much, much closer that Washington? Well, spit him like a roast…

Cad met the big truck’s steely scowl with an awkward laugh he hoped to hell the guy didn’t see through.

“W-well, that was, uh, new. I assure you, it’s not supposed to do that.” Cad pinned a nearby employee with a glare and sent him towards housekeeping with a ferocious hiss. He turned back to his most unhappy guest when he heard his huge tires crunching small bits of gravel into the cobblestones.

“So, aheheh… towel?”

“Valve, Mr. Spinner. Right now.”

* * *

 

Blade had to dredge up the deepest of his reserve willpower to not laugh. He winced instead, but he was sure the effect was ruined by the grin on his face that he could not seem to get rid of. Part of him wanted to be furious; the ever-rational part of his personality took immense offense at the amount of water being wasted as it erupted from an over-pressurized, blown-out pipe. This part, however, was being danced upon as his sense of humor thoroughly enjoyed watching the overflow consume Ryker entirely. He did not entirely feel bad for him; the crash tender was tough enough to impress, and he carried more water than this _inside_ of him. The humor came from the fact that Cad’s misstep had just reared back and bitten in the face one of the few people able to send his career and high-flying ego on a painfully catastrophic introduction to the ground. He rather wished he were closer. When the investigator slowly rolled from deluge and crowded into Cad’s face, he would kill to see both expressions. Even so, he could hear the ARFF’s massive engine from his perch on the roof; it made a deep, threatening, purring rumble that carried so many unsaid threats Blade was sure Ryker’s assistant would need another clipboard. Blade had heard Avalanche make a similar sound once.

Even from a couple hundred feet away, well out of hearing range of any normal conversation, he could see that the entire demeanor of the confrontation had changed. Cad was suddenly much more accommodating; he was placating, clearly, and it did not take long for Ryker’s next bark to send him scooting swiftly towards the side of the building. They passed under Blade’s helideck as they did, and he had to resist everything in him that wanted to rub his sneer in Cad’s face. He was able to school his expression down just long enough for himself and Cad to cross gazes. The superintendent’s sheer contempt just fueled Blade’s glee.

‘Glee’, huh? He’d keep that description to himself. Sounded way to upbeat for him. If anyone asked, he’d describe his feelings as ‘tentatively optimistic.’

Windlifter shifted so that Blade could see off of his end of the deck. Blade was glad the Sikorsky was so tall, else he couldn’t fit under his rotor span. Beneath then, Blade could see the lever and water control valve in question. Also, the reason for Ryker’s immediate suspicion at the base; indeed the lever was down, in-line with the supply pipe, and still shunting water to the lodge. Seeing it with his own eyes tempered his good mood a fair bit. How _dare_ he. That was borderline willful endangerment.

At this distance, Blade could pick out their conversation.

“D-did I say that _I_ had flipped the switch? You see, what I meant was—“

Ryker was clearly not buying any of it. Cad had evidently put his tires so far inside his own mouth he couldn’t possibly pull them out.

“I was assuming Cad was clever enough not to incriminate himself to the TMST.” Blade gave a soft chuckle; where was the sport of Cad wasn’t at least going to fight back a _bit_. He wanted to see Ryker unload all over Cad. What had Drip called that level of anger and badaftery? Beastmode? Yeah, that’s it.

Next to him, Windlifter gave a quite ‘hm’ as he watched the proceedings below.

“My mother gave me a piece of advice once, something she’d learned from her parents, and their parents before them.” Windlifter gave Blade a look, and he recognized it well enough as the closest to an outwardly visible smirk as Windlifter ever got. “ ‘Never pass on a good opportunity to shut up’.”

Blade suppressed a snort. Truer words had never been spoken. Nothing hurt like saying too much.

Across the lot, Blade noticed both a yellow fire engine and a smaller, older SUV heading dead-to-rights for Cad and Ryker. One was surely the Fusel Lodge’s assigned engine. Blade’d never met the guy. He frowned; he should endeavor to fix that in the near future. The other, Blade couldn’t quite place, but from the scowl on his face and the crisp logo on his flank, he had a lot of unpleasant business with Spinner.

As the distance closed, Blade almost choked in surprise. That logo. The Department of the Interior? All his Christmases, they were here, and it was only late July. If Ryker carried a big stick, this old guy wielded a whole slagging tree. He could feel his ‘tentative optimism’ give an excited spasm.

* * *

 

He’d had to sit in that water stream for a moment to get his thoughts under control. The water had scattered them to the wind, and it was hard to order his mind back to normalcy when a writhing, searing rage pumped hotly through his head. He was glad the spray hid his expression, gave him time to slowly, _forcefully_ , return it to some vague semblance of something professional. White-hot anger did not a good conversation make. He could feel the water settle into the seams on his plating, as close to cooling his interior as physically possible.

Upon emerging from his impromptu shower and returning his attention to the task at hand (which had become so much more personal than he would have ever liked), he found Cad Spinner to be much more docile in his engagement. Except for that flippant remark about a towel. Unnecessary, unless his motive was to send Ryker to an early death from fury-induced fluid over-pressurization.

Cad was now much quicker to comply with taking Ryker to the water flow control valve on the side of the lodge. Sure enough, it was that same ill-labeled thing he’d looked at earlier today. The superintendent was equally quick to throw the lever back up into its normal positioning. Or try to; Ryker would never admit that watching him struggle to flip a switch was darkly amusing.

Ryker’s attention was drawn by the approach of two other vehicles. The first, a large yellow type one engine, met his gaze and gave him a crisp nod, which Ryker returned smartly. The second caused him to sit a little higher and sharper on his suspension; it was not every day the US Secretary of the Interior rolled through his investigation.

Ryker frowned a bit. There was no way he had traveled all the way here from his office in Washington just for this, and in such a short amount of time. Ryker’s job required a prompt on-scene response; the Secretary’s did not.

“ _Spinner_!” That was not the tone of voice possessed by a calm man.

“Ah! Mr. Secretary!” The grin that stuttered across the superintendent’s face was one of the most forced Ryker had ever seen. If Cad could dig a hole deep enough to hide in, Ryker was positive he’d be doing it right now.

“What the hell is going on!?” Ryker gave some ground, allowing the Secretary to place himself immediately in from of Cad.

“O-oh, this? It’s nothing!” He shot Ryker a nervous look. “He’s almost finished, and it’s certainly nothing criminal…”

“I didn’t mean _him_ ,” the Secretary snapped, and Ryker took no offense, “I meant the park! How was that situation last night allowed to devolve so badly?”

“It didn’t turn out that bad. The lodge is fine!”

“I don’t give a _damn_ about the Lodge!” Ryker noted that hearing this made Cad look visibly hurt. “I meant the fire. The evacuation! Where were your emergency plans, your staff to control traffic? Mr. Jammer, Pulaski and I had to do everything ourselves!” Pulaski. Ryker looked at the yellow engine, who fidgeted just slightly with a front tire in minor embarrassment. The crash tender noted damage to his canopy nozzle.

“The fire didn’t look that big…” Cad mumbled.

“Not that big!? I was in it! Almost everyone in the park was in it!” Even Cad balked at that, and Ryker heard what sounded remarkably similar to a pair of helicopters wincing from the roof. “You—we—are so lucky your air attack base threw their rulebook out the window to give us a line through the fire! At _night_!” The Secretary stopped to catch his breath, and took some time to look at Ryker. The ARFF sat quietly and let himself be appraised.

“Is that what this investigation is about, Mr. Ryker?”

Ryker did not opt to show any surprise that the Secretary of the Interior knew who he was.

“Partially, sir. Mostly in regards to a pair of aircraft crashes, at least one of which may stem directly from an improper divergence of a main water supply line from the Piston Peak Fire Attack base.” The Secretary nodded, and seemed to consider something, briefly.

“Consider their fine paid.”

“Beg pardon?”

“For engaging a wild fire at night. Consider it paid, since I highly doubt even I’ll be able to dissuade one of the authors of the current Aircraft Safety Code from enforcing the regulations he wrote himself.” 

Ah. His name was in the credits of that handbook, wasn’t it? And with his Investigator ID number painted on his plating, he supposed any quick government search would pull him up. He looked at his aide, who grinned wide enough for the both of them (he’d have to talk to him about that later), scribbled something on a document, and gave Ryker a nod.  
  
“Done, then.” If the two helitankers up on the deck had any reaction, he didn’t hear it.

“Do you still need to speak to Mr. Spinner here for anything else?”

“Yes. We are not done talking about his misappropriation of a municipal resource.” He fixed Cad with a glare, and was surprised when he was met with an indignant squawk.

“Actually, if I may, I’m quite busy here—“

“ _Actually_ , he has all the time in the world. Take what you need from him.”

“M-Mr. Secretary—“ Cad started, only to be cut off by the Secretary’s frosty stare.

“Don’t you even dare, Spinner. No one here has time for it. All our jobs now include cleaning up your mess.”

“But what about _my_ job?”

“What job is that? You don’t have a job.”

Cad’s eyes widened.

“W-wait. You can’t—“

“I have, Spinner. Get your things and get out.”

Ryker heard his assistant’s pen click. He let his gaze get away from him, crossing with the Fire Chief still perched on the roof. He did _not_ share a smirk with him; he had no stakes in the career of one overbearing park employee. It did not stop him from taking note of the dangerous grin that fought its way across the red chopper’s face. He rolled up to Spinner, this time close enough to be pushing _way_ past bullying, and put his steel mask back into place.

He had an investigation to finish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whew* Here it is. Part two, In Which Ryker Has a Bad Day, But Cad Get's What's Coming to Him. 
> 
> Guh, parts of this one feel weird to me, but there's no helping it. I gotta get back to my regularly scheduled silly and cute stuff soon.
> 
> Its, like, 3am for me right now, but I was so determined to finish. This chapter is entirely unbeta'd, and I'm sure i have weird grammatical errors and awkward tense changes in here. And typos. I'll edit once I wake back up.
> 
> Ryker is still mad fun to write. Also, methinks I'll give poor Pulaski some love in the future; poor guy got hired just in time for the slag to hit the fan.
> 
> Also, more Ryker. Cuz he's awesome. Did I mention that? Oh, well. 
> 
> Ryker.


	11. War Stories - Pinecone & Cabbie

The early, cold fall rain beat hard against Pinecone’s plating, cooling and soothing the caustic, burning rage-hate- _embarrassment_ that roiled around inside her. She bit her lip hard to distract her from the telltale stinging in her eyes that meant she was close to losing her composure. She was glad that the rain and evening darkness hid any signs of her distress from everybody else.

It was her second season up in Piston Peak. Her first year was originally for training purposes, but towards the end she had been given an offer at a permanent position. It had become abundantly clear that the resident chief was difficult to please, much less impress, and with few other commitments to see to, Pinecone had signed on the dotted line with very little thought. She liked her teammates, and they seemed to like her, and the rest of her first shift was the most fun she’d had in quite a while.

She’d arrived for her second season almost six months ago, and was feeling the ache that came with busting her aft all summer long. She enjoyed it, though; it was rather like an extended camping trip. An escape via work.

She did not expect her former life to come crashing back into her.

This afternoon was a typical lazy day around the base; she could hear Avalanche’s hoarse shout and Drip’s enthusiastic whoop from somewhere outside. She found them doing what she thought they’d be doing, repairing (and ‘testing’) the well-worn dirt ramps and jumps they’d assembled on the edges of the base. Dipper hummed to herself as she tended her flower garden. Windlifter was hoisting logs again, Cabbie was partially inside Maru’s shop for maintenance, and Patch had come down from the tower for coffee. Blade was nowhere to be seen.

It became abnormal pretty darn quick, when about an hour later Avalanche screeched her name from somewhere on the tarmac.

“HEY, PINECONE! YOU HAVE A GUEST!”

She’d frowned. Who’d drive all the way out here for her? She had no acquaintances anywhere remotely nearby.

She’d made her way slowly over towards the end of the airstrip, passing Dynamite and Blackout on the way. Dynamite had given her a smirk.

“Got your boyfriends knocking at our door, huh? You bad, bad girl. I’m almost jealous. Just make sure Blade don’t see him.”

Pinecone frowned. She didn’t have a boyfriend. Not since… well. _That_. Someone was clearly speaking to Avalanche, who moved aside at her approach with a grin and a, “KNOCK ‘EM DEAD!”

Knock him dead. What irony, considering her guest was a no-count, slag-sucking, bimbo-chasing sack of garbage named Her Ex. Really named CJ, but his real name could jump off a cliff and die. It felt like her face had frozen into an expression combining both her extreme shock and the urge to plant her rake grapple in his eyes.

“Long time no see, babe.”

Pinecone sputtered, bit down on a reply that was entirely too impolite for a lady to utter, and settled for a growl.

“…what are _you_ doing here?” And, more importantly, how the hell had he found her?

“I’m here for you.”

“That’s rich, considerin’ how you left me,” she hissed. The vitriol must have saturated her voice, because she heard Avalanche’s engine stutter briefly as he did a quick about face somewhere behind her. 

“I know, sweetheart. I came to beg forgiveness. I want—“

“To leave. Right now.” Pinecone was done. Maybe a year ago she would have been broken enough to listen to him. But she was done. Her life had been on an upward track ever since, and she was not going to ruin it for this guy. Not now, or ever.

“Aw, just listen, please. I came all the way here to get you because I want to make it work with you again. You were the best thing to ever happen to me!” CJ moved closer, well into her personal space. She backed up an equal distance.

“Was I the best thing to happen to you when you abandoned me on the altar?” The emotions were starting to scratch at the walls she had erected around them. This had to end quick, before she embarrassed herself. She could already feel old, dead feelings clawing at her throat and eyes.

“I know I hurt you, real bad. Let’s just talk. Come back to the hotel with me.” He made another move forwards. _Hell no_. The pickup could stick it up his exhaust and die.

“We have absolutely nothing to talk about, and I will never be seen anywhere near a hotel with you,” she gave ground again, eager to avoid the prickly crawling she felt by being even remotely close him. She didn’t get as far as she liked, as she backed abruptly into something hard. It was Avalanche’s blade, making him clearly much closer than she thought. He wasn’t looking at her, however, and his engine idled at a low purr that carried enough menace to startle her. It wasn’t just him either. Her visiting bundle of personal drama had attracted attention. Drip and Blackout’s faces both carried uncharacteristically unfriendly scowls and Dynamite seemed a short fuse away from losing her composure. Maru was idly tapping a tool against the railing of the repair bay ramp, and Cabbie towered next to him, both with expressions that were thoroughly unamused (although, in Maru’s case, perhaps dangerously amused was more accurate). Across the airstrip, Windlifter and Dipper just watched quietly.

It was starting to become overwhelming. Pinecone didn’t want to air her dirty laundry like this. This had to be _over_. Like, five minutes ago.

“Get out. Forget you saw me, and leave.”

“I ain’t goin’ without talkin’ to you.”

“Get _out_.” She hoped dearly that he couldn’t see her crumbling emotional state.

“No.”

“CJ—“

“Aw, let the boy stay,” Cabbie’s voice came in a smooth drawl, but the tone was surprisingly dark. “He won’t be around too much longer anyways. Chief should be back soon, and it’s been a while since I’ve watched Blade eat someone alive.”

“I don’t remember anyone involving you, old man,” the pickup sneered. This caused enough people to bristle that Pinecone thought someone was going to kill him, and even Windlifter, clear across the yard, turned to give CJ his full attention. 

Maru chuckled, and shared a grin with Cabbie that was a shade shy of being carnivorous.

“Kid’s belligerent, too. That’s good. Blade likes it when they fight back.” Not really, no, but it would make for a slagging spectacular show. Maru had no qualms about breaking out drinks in order to watch the parts fly.

“Come over here, and I’ll show you a fight, ya little scooter.” Pinecone heard Avalanche’s engine quickly rumble up several gears, and she set her breaks. She didn’t need any one of them going to jail on her behalf. This needed to be resolved as peacefully, and decisively as possible, and Pinecone would do it herself. Her past, her problems.

Fate decided to deal her a vastly different hand. Blade soon returned from scouting the park, and CJ’s incredible inability to read a situation came to the fore in a splendidly disastrous fashion. His belligerence towards Blade made her wince; she couldn’t imagine even daring uttering half of those words in the air boss’ presence. Blade had countered with that icy blue stare so frigid it caused engines to seize and coolant to freeze in their lines, and Pinecone was glad Avalanche was still at her rear tires so no one could see her unconscious flinch.

Speaking of, she’d learned something new: Avalanche’s Chill to Furious meter was dangerously uncalibrated. On a scale from one to ten, it stayed at one until about seven ticks, then jumped up four-seven-ten swift enough that one could entirely miss the point where it exploded. When CJ had tried to maneuver to push Pinecone out with him, he’d bumpered up against Avalanche’s blade. Pinecone caught the almost imperceptible widening of Blade’s eyes, and Maru’s quiet forewarning hiss.

CJ had pushed some of his weight against the track loader, accompanied by a biting threat or eight. For a moment, Avalanche hadn’t so much as twitched, and Pinecone almost thought that he would sit there and take it like a professional until she heard Dynamite’s sharp, “Avalanche, _don’t!_ ”

His engine roared, he pivoted to put the plane of his blade against the offending grill guard, and the fight was on. CJ was a big pickup, and he was used to hauling cargo back south. But Avalanche was more than double his weight, and even once CJ throttled his engine and threw his power into pushing his grill guard into the blade at his bumper, he didn’t move an inch. Pinecone had watched the bulldozer’s thick treads turn steadily, and even with all his brakes locked CJ was giving ground. Avalanche pushed him across the tarmac, and CJ’s eyes widened when his back bumper hit a very large tree. This pinned him between a hard place and Avalanche, which Pinecone admitted was possibly even worse that taking Blade’s scowl any day of the week; at least Blade wouldn’t actually turn someone into scrap. Probably. CJ gunned his engine in an attempt to escape, which did little more than throw a cloud of dirt behind him. Avalanche’s treads rotated a half-turn, with the pickup still pinned between his blade and the tree trunk. Pinecone could see where this was heading.

“Well, that escalated quick.” Cabbie actually looked a bit worried. Maru did not.

“I’ll start digging a hole out back to hide the body.”

In the end, it took a sharp snap from Dynamite, Blade’s frosty bark, _and_ the threat of a tow back to the jumper hangar from Windlifter to peel Avalanche from CJ’s grill. The truck winced when he was released, and Blade gave him all of five seconds to recover before restating his desire for his prompt removal from the base. CJ snarled, revved his engine, and made another move towards Pinecone. Nope, none of that. She was finished with all of this.

“We are _done_ , CJ. Forever. _I’m_ done. What you did to my family, to me, I can’t begin to forgive you. I don’t know how you managed to track me all the way out here, but you need to throw out your GPS and forget how you ever got to Piston Peak. You blew your shot at happiness—and my shot, too, slaggit—when you left me. Don’t _even,_ ” she snapped when he opened his mouth to protest, “try it. I will never go anywhere with you, ever.” Those old, dead emotions were acting rather lively, now. There was one heck of a knot in her throat and her tongue felt thick, but like hell she’d be caught crying in public. Not any more, anyways. “Get out.”

CJ looked like he was going to debate this, but a good look around, and a glance at his damaged grill guard made him think better of another argument. That, and his eyes lingered on the angry looking skid-steer brandishing a fragging _saw_. He gave an angry huff and spit on the ground, before turning and speeding back out to the tarmac and down the entry road, but not before sending a cloud of dirt in Pinecone’s direction with his back tires. He couldn’t hide the careful way he moved, even at speed; there was clearly some physical discomfort somewhere in his undercarriage. Blade gave an irritated snarl, before turning to give Pinecone an appraising once over. She put on the bravest face she could muster and rolled her eyes.

“Nice guy. I can’t imagine why that didn’t work out for you.”

“I know, right?” She knew he could probably hear the huskiness in her voice, despite her most valiant efforts.

He gave her a slight smile before heading towards the main hangar. On his way he pinned Avalanche with a withering glare, motioning for him to follow. The track loader let out a pneumatic hiss that sounded like his entire system had depressurized, and with his temper simmered back down to much more reasonable level, he fell in line after Blade. Dynamite brought up the rear, looking no more pleased than the chief did, and Pinecone could only speculate as to the severity of the reaming the dozer was about to get.

The rest of the afternoon passed rather quietly, and even the usual nonsense that was dinner was rather subdued. Avalanche looked about as cowed and tame as she’d ever seen him. She squirmed under the watchful gazes of her teammates, and Pinecone had excused herself from the table just as soon as it was polite to do so. She didn’t want to head back to the jumper hangar, the rest of the drop team would swamp the place in short order, so she’d headed out towards the edges of the base, overlooking the northeastern cliff at the edge of the tarmac. Nature had decided that this was a wonderful time for some precipitation, and so she found herself sitting alone out in the rain, trying hard to corral her thoughts.

After all this time, the bastard thought he could just roll back into her life and expect a welcome, expect her compliance. Her rage was mounting, and it brought the stinging eyes and blurring vision that she would pass off as _just_ rainwater if anyone asked.

It had taken forever for the pain to go away. All her family in attendance, with him an hour late, and she had been truly worried. After three hours, her mom had dared broach the unspeakable possibility that had sent her into a fit, and why wasn’t her best friend here to help her? After five hours, she had known. Her father and brother and cousins had been up in arms, her mother and sisters had gently stewarded her through the next few weeks of a depression that she didn’t think she’d ever get out of. It had taken some scraping and climbing and enough mental barriers to create a maximum-security prison, but she’d managed to regain some semblance of emotional normality. She’d then fled as far from home as a ticket would take her, and landed at Piston Peak with nothing but her determination and a copy of her job application. The rest of the story had been gravy, until the slag-sipper had the nerve to come and _frag it all up._

Pinecone sighed quietly, well and truly emotionally exhausted. She blinked to clear the rain from her eyes again, except that there wasn’t any. She could hear the rain striking metal, and she looked up to see the broad expanse of an aircraft wing. Even in the fading evening light, Pinecone could make out the red ‘51’ painted on the silver metal. For an old man with a wingspan that eclipsed Windlifter and Blade’s rotor spans together, he was rather stealthy. Or maybe she was just that distracted.

He wasn’t looking at her, just gazing out across what could be seen of the valley. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, and had to shut it hard on the strangled cry that was _so close_ to embarrassing her utterly. If Cabbie noticed, he didn’t show it. Her emotions bucked and flailed wildly. She wanted…something. She wanted to scream and cry and _really_ let CJ know how he’d crippled her, all the hurt and embarrassment she’d carried around for months afterwards. She wanted to be furious that anyone on base had to know about the inglorious end of that relationship. She wanted to be angry at Avalanche for sticking his face deep into her business, and also at herself for not having the lug nuts to do what he did and put CJ in his place so hard that he’d _never_ forget it. And she _somehow_ wanted Cabbie to either say something exactly to this effect, or to just read her mind so she wouldn’t have to say any of it aloud.

All this churned around inside her and eventually spit forth a bubbling vat of emotions that Pinecone found impossible to contain. It took all her willpower to keep her sobs as quite as possible; Pinecone didn’t think she could handle the reputation bawling her eyes out would get her. Eventually they subsided, leaving her feeling somewhat empty. And cold. She didn’t think she had the energy to move, sitting there watching the rain flow in tiny rivers across the tarmac and listening to it beat hard against Cabbie’s plating.

“Feel any better?” After a good half hour of silence, hearing his voice actually startled her. Pinecone took a moment to swallow, not fully confident in her throat’s ability to form proper words.

“I’m not sure yet.” She pretended her voice wasn’t still thick, and blinked hard to clear her vision. “Ain’t this there you tell me that keeping it bottled up inside ain’t good for me?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t take my word for it. I’m an old hypocrite with this kind of stuff.”

Pinecone sighed. Now that her head was clearing a bit, she was touched. Cabbie had a very large, dry hangar he could be in; there was no reason for him to join her private little misery huddle in the rain. 

“I’m alright, you know. You can go inside.”

“Hmph,” was his only response, and not even a propeller so much as twitched to announce any intention of going anywhere.

Pinecone fidgeted with a front tire, rolling her tongue around in her mouth to make sure it worked.

“He used to be nice, you know.” When Cabbie didn’t say anything, she continued. “We used to have a lot of fun. He was a real romantic, all into flowers and long phone calls and indulging me in the sappiest movies we could find.” The thickness in her throat was still there, but she the more she talked the easier it became to speak around. “We used to be inseparable, and I thought he was the best.” 

“I sure hope so. If he’d always been like this, I’d have asked Maru to give you a diagnostic.”

Pinecone felt a smile begin to tug gently on her mouth.

“If there is one thing I don’t trust Maru to fix, its romantic affairs.”

“No one needs to know a thing about romantic affairs to know that boy of yours is full of it.” Cabbie’s broad propellers gave a slow, single turn in thought. “He must have been damn smooth to pull one over on you for so long.”

“Yeah, lookin’ back, I missed a bunch of warning signs. Love being blind, and all that.” Cabbie just gave an unintelligible rumble.

Across the base, she could hear her teammates yelling over something or another. Could be another fight for the TV remote; those tended to get loud and brutal. Pinecone could not help a small smile; rowdy and crazy and sometimes _rude_ they may be, but after today she knew she had no greater backup anywhere. Even if Avalanche almost got himself incarcerated.

“He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t have really scrapped him, would he?”

Cabbie gave a soft snort, and Pinecone could see a slow smirk slide across his face.

“Naw. It’s not in him. Kid erupts like a volcano, and he’d sure send someone for some serious bodywork, but even with his temper he’d stop sort of killing even that _fantastic_ fiancé of yours.” He shot her a sideways glance, looking at her for the first time during this engagement. “Trust me, he doesn’t have a bloodthirsty strut in his framework.” Pinecone eyed the faded USAF paint on Cabbie’s flank, and figured if anyone here knew well enough about the topic, the veteran would.

“Still, never seen him like that. Kinda worried me.”

“Me too.” Cabbie was smiling again, gazing back out over the valley. “You usually have to dig deep to get a real serious rise out of him, and it’s been a while since I thought he might do something that stupid. You weren’t around then, but when Spinner started eyeing our budget, there was a point where Blade thought we’d have to bolt Avalanche to the hangar floor to keep him from flipping Cad off a cliff.” The mental image of the track loader bodily pitching a screaming, white SUV from a precipice should not have amused her so much.

Pinecone giggled.

“What finally chilled ‘im out?” Her eyes widened after a moment. “Is that why he’s so into orchestral music and that stuff with the wind chimes and nature sounds?”

Cabbie grinned hard enough to make it look painful. “Maybe, but I think he was into that before he got here. It just became more prevalent once he realized Blade is a stickler for professionalism, and that he needed to keep a lid on that fiery disposition of his.”

There was more screaming from the main hangar; sure enough, the offending singular television controller seemed to be the culprit. She watched as Drip bolted from the hangar and took off across the yard with Blackout and Dynamite on his tail.

“Give that back, Drip!” Dynamite was screeching as she pursued him. “We’re not watching any more cartoons!”

“Its not a cartoon! It’s anime! Soooo much cooler!”

“If you make me miss this game, man, I will make you eat that claw of yours!”

Pinecone let out a combination of a sigh and a laugh. Only these guys could turn watching TV into a spectator sport. It was comforting, living in a place with lively people that caroused and joked and argued like the best of friends. She likened it to a mish mashed family-away-from-family. That thought soothed her acidic emotions more than she knew to be possible, and the result just left her tired. It felt a bit like a good tired, though. Like she could fall asleep right here, and be perfectly okay.

Next to her, Cabbie gave a soft chuff.

“Hmph, leave it to them to be loud for no good reason.” He regarded Pinecone for a moment. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get you out of the rain. You’ve been out here long enough.”

“I’m alright, Cabbie. Little rain never killed anybody.”

“No, but there’s no reason for self-imposed brooding in the cold weather. You’re too young for this, and the boss does enough dour scowling for all of us. That, and Maru will probably take it as a personal insult if you managed to rust anything while out here.”

Pinecone grinned. That did sound rather awful, having to sit in the shop listening to the mechanic harp irritably as he roughly scoured rust from the various bits of her frame. She relented, and allowed the warplane to lead her back to the relative quiet of the Smokejumper hangar. He moved carefully around her, both to keep her under his broad wing and to avoid knocking her canopy with a one of his heavy propellers. His wingtip scraped the awning over the hangar door as Pinecone rolled it open. It was quiet inside; with Drip still leading Dynamite and Blackout on a wild chase through the mud and rain, that left just Avalanche in their hangar. He had his headphones on and his eyes closed, but he did crack one open as she entered. He gave her a small smile, and several other expressions flickered across his face that were at odds with his usual wild enthusiasm. She felt a conversation coming on, and she was surprised that this did not bother her. He looked like he needed one, and she now felt safe enough to have it. Thanks in no small part to an old plane with impeccable timing.

Pinecone turned back to the hangar door to see only Cabbie’s swiftly disappearing tail. Leave it to him to depart without saying goodnight. Or waiting for her gratitude. Well, she refused to let at least one of those issues wait.

“Thank you, Cabbie!” she called after him.

He only dipped a wing in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because I needed to flex my genre muscles a little bit; hurt/comfort fics are hard for me, especially when they involve drama. This chapter looked reeeeeeally ugly for quite a while, and parts of it still feel forced to me. And poor Pinecone deserved to have some fluff; I lol'd so hard when she described how her fiancé just vanished into the ether, an then the implications made me sad.
> 
> Also, this is the third incarnation of this piece, and Avalanche still demanded to be allowed to knock Pinecone's ex about. I just gave him his own chapter, dammit. Clearly, I need more Avalanche.
> 
> This is unbeta'd and posted at 0330, so I'm sure it's got all kinds of things wrong with it. I'll fix 'em as soon as I catch 'em. Same old, same old.


	12. War Stories - Blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Contains a pair of OCs. If this offends your sensibilities, skip ahead to the next chapter.

Blade sneezed hard through all his vents as he made his way back to base, taking note of the sun hanging low over the hills; he had approximately fifteen minutes before he was officially in direct violation of his own standing orders. He was sore all over, having far exceeded his sixteen-hour flight time (again). Long as he didn’t crash into a hill or somesuch, the TMST didn’t need to know. His engines _itched_ on the inside, and he made a note to have Maru give them a check once he got back; it felt like they’d ingested enough dust and grit to make Anchor Lake a brand new beach.

This fire was well into its first week of life, and it showed no signs of slowing down. It had exploded into life from a campsite one evening, and once they’d failed to stop it before the hills it had taken off, chewing through the trees and cresting the ridge at the northeast border of the park. It was currently threatening several communities beyond Piston Peak’s borders, and it had already consumed a couple dozen structures. Fortunately for Blade’s small team, mutual aid had arrived fairly quickly (Patch was damned good at her job, but Blade had to hand this one to Pulaski; he had no idea what kind of contacts he had, but the engine had placed some calls and people had just about flown out of the woodwork to get here). Nearby jurisdictions aside, they got backup from all over; Blade was probably the most relieved to see a wing of air tankers from Cal Fire, which were the vanguard for several task forces of ground support. Even with such a forceful response, however, the fire had barely slowed. There was a mandatory evacuation order for the county containing the head of the fire, and it was a race to put lines around the rest of the blaze before it obliterated a town.

Blade gave a nod to the current air boss as he passed him. After a couple days of handling the scene as Incident Commander, he’d happily forked over the role to a burly, seasoned brush truck he’d had the privilege of working with before; it made his controlling tendencies easier to manage knowing the person at the helm would get things done right. This left him open for field work, and he’d been rotating shifts as air boss with a slightly frenetic but capable OV-10A Bronco, and a grizzled but jolly UH-1H Super Huey. He filled his ‘off’ days with being an active tanker, which kept him out in the fire near his team. The Smokejumpers had been out here for days, which freed up Cabbie to act as a supply shuttle for the logistics team. 

Cabbie had remarked that it was like a vacation, carrying cargo that didn’t squirm about or argue. Blade knew he was a touch concerned; not worried, the kids knew what they were doing, but days on a fire line with little sleep wasn’t good for anyone. Maru had a running bet with Windlifter and Dipper as to how many sticks he’d be pulling out of each jumper when they got back. 

As he slowly crested a hill, someone pinged his radio on an off-channel. His radar picked up two signatures, one a bit bigger than himself, and the other _way_ bigger than himself. He soon found himself being flanked by a sleek, dark blue Beechcraft King Air 200. She smiled at him and gave him a wink before accelerating past him. He smirked, and resisted the urge to duck out of the way of the massive aircraft she proceeded. He was soon swallowed by the shadow of an L-1011 Tristar, one of the huge plane’s engines clearing Blade’s rotor span by a mere couple dozen feet.

“Skyhigh-114, that was a dangerously close pass off my starboard side.”

“Ranger-301, I was cleared for this pass by my guide plane. I’m sure she hailed you.” He knew she hadn’t.

“She did no such thing.”

Up ahead, the Beechcraft waggled her wings.

“Don’t you boys pull me into this.” She accelerated, pointed her nose up and took a wide, swift bank around to vacate the space needed by the Lockheed coming up hard on her tail. “I told him that he should give you a call and come say ‘hi’, not send you an alert and rush you from your six.”

“He’s got radar, he knew I was comin’.”

A snort, and then, “Blade, you’re about to get slapped upside the face by a hot air current a couple hundred yards long.”

Blade’s eyes widened and he gained altitude as swiftly as he was able. It had been a while since he’d shared close space with anyone sporting a turbofan engine, never mind three of them. He could see the air shimmer just under his belly as the Lockheed’s wash rippled beneath him. That would be a terrible end to his day, being sent careening into the ground by someone’s swirly.

“Thank you, Orbit.”

“Slipstream-67 copies. I accept payments in booze and chocolate.”

“Aw, now why did you do that? You are such a spoilsport.” The Lockheed sighed over the radio.

“No she isn’t, she just doesn’t want me to die.”

“You’re too good to die like that. I’d have to bodily crash into you to knock you out of the sky.”

“I am going to take that as a compliment and ignore the underhanded attempt on my life.” The only response he got was laughter as the L-1011 pulled up and around, taking a much more leisurely bank around a ridge than his guide plane.

Blade found his mood higher than it had been in a while. When he’d heard the two familiar call signs during fire attack, he’d kept an eye out for the rest of the day. They had been working the northern flank of the fire, where the Lockheed’s mile long drop areas were used to stop the flames on the long, high ridges. Blade had been on the southeastern edge, where his mobility in the air made him ideal for the steep, rugged terrain. As one of only a few wide-bodied air tankers stationed in California, Thrust Skyhigh was kept busy every fire season, both with the CDF and well outside state lines. Orbit Slipstream was his guide plane, blessed with sharp eyes and guts to spare. A competent air boss in her own right, she preferred grunt work to officer positions, and she busted her tail hard as a lead for Thrust and other modified super large air tankers.

Orbit had circled back around, and pulled up again off Blade’s port side. He couldn’t suppress a grin; this friendship was more than twenty years old, and the jokes came easily. When they’d met, Blade had found Thrust’s loud, over-the-top nature to be incredibly irritating, tolerable only when tempered by Orbit’s even-keel personality, but it had grown on him swiftly when he’d discovered that shaking the huge jet liner was almost impossible. That, and ‘too much friendliness’ aside, the Lockheed was loyal to a fault, and Blade remembered one incident when smoke had both choked his engines and rendered him blind. The calm voice that talked him back out into the open sky had sounded entirely unlike what normally came out of the L-1011’s mouth, but Blade had found he no longer minded when Thrust gave him rough bump with a wingtip and a wide grin. Blade still maintained that Thrust was meant to be built as an F-16, because wide-bodied jets were not meant to make rolls like that, but a mistake had been made somewhere down the line.

He’d seen them several times since, usually crossing paths over fire grounds, occasionally getting the opportunity to share a drink before heading their separate ways. When Blade had been promoted Piston Peak Air Attack Chief, he’d received a letter that was one part genuine congratulations (from Orbit) and one part genuine sarcastic encouragement (from Thrust). He still had it amid his files, and rereading it always brought forth a small smile and an eye roll.

Orbit’s gaze shifted from Blade to the ground, and it wasn’t long before the trees and hills were replaced with Thrust’s white fuselage and impossibly broad wings. All his flaps were down, Blade could hear his engines work to keep him from both outpacing Blade and remaining above his stall speed. Despite the discomfort in his own engines (yup, pretty sure stuff was in there, because his turbines just felt plain _weird_ ) Blade pushed his cruising speed, giving both Orbit and Thrust greater ease of flight. The massive tanker grinned up at him.

“The brass over there got you workin’ the line with the rest of us grunts, huh? That must have been one heck of a short straw.”

“I signed up for it. I’m more of a ‘covered in dirt’ brand of Chief anyways. Best to give Incident Command to someone with that specialty.” Blade would fully admit that managing his usual ten person crew was a lot different than managing a scene totaling hundreds of people. He figured that if he’d instead ended up in a municipal department, he’d have never decided to promote beyond Captain.

“And we thank you for gracing us with your illustrious presence.” Orbit gave Thrust a ‘tsk’, which he countered with a smirk. She ignored it.

“Since _he’s_ clearly not going to say it with normal words: how’ve you been? It’s been a long time since we were in your neck of the woods.”

“It has been a while, hasn’t it? I’ve had a stable crew for the past several years, and it’s probably one of the most cohesive teams I’ve ever lead.” Blade gave Orbit a smirk. “I genuinely like all of them.” 

She gave a mock gasp. 

“Blade admits he _likes_ people? Is the world about to end? Hath hell frozen over?”

“Money says they’re automatons that he’s given names to.”

“Actually, a couple of them smack of _you_ , Thrust. Just smaller, replace the wings with treads.” He pretended to think. “Better looking, too.”

“We can’t all be graced with your actor’s face.” His eyes narrowed for a moment, looked at Blade, and his grin returned full force. “They smack of _me_ , and you _like_ them? I’ll take that as a compliment. C’mere, buddy!” Thrust began to rise rapidly, and Blade had to ascend again to avoid him. He decided to place himself on the other side of Orbit, which meant Thrust would have to push her out of the way to get to him. In the air, even Thrust wasn’t that crazy.

“None of that, thanks. I think I still have damage from that last ‘bro bump’ you gave me.” Too big. He was too big to be doing that.

“Aw, just gonna leave me hangin’, huh? That’s okay, I’ll forgive you since you’ve already admitted that you love me.”

“I’m pretty sure the word Blade used was ‘like’—“

“He said ‘love.’ That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” Thrust slowly alternated waving his ailerons, causing him to weave about lazily beneath Blade and Orbit. “Speaking of love,” He gave Blade a pointed look, accompanied by wolfish smirk that let Blade know he was not going to like this conversation topic, “how much of that do you have in your life?”

“Oh, not this again.”

“Don’t pretend like you aren’t curious, Orbit.”

“I’m not. It’s none of my business.” She pulled ahead of them a good distance, but Blade noted that she was still close enough to reconvene with them quickly if the gossip turned juicy.

“Seriously though,” and if Blade had been blessed with the speed to match the TriStar, he’d be fleeing right now, “no one, still? Wallowing in the Single’s Life?”

“Not sure if ‘wallowing’ would be the term I’d use, but sure. Let’s go with that.”

“At least tell me that your bachelor pad is a happenin’ place,” and Thrust accompanied this with a look that implied so many obscene things that Blade felt he’d need to wash his eyes just for seeing it. His mind supplied a ‘kay, ew, no thanks’ that sounded surprisingly like Dipper.

“About as happening as the cold, dark bottom of a lake.”

The jet liner let out a loud groan of long-suffering frustration, and it amused Blade greatly.

“Stickshift, man, just ask someone out. _For once in your life_ , live a little!” He had. That was a whole different life ago for Blade, but it had happened. Not that he’d ever tell. 

Blade pinged Thrust on a private channel, shooting a quick glance at Orbit, now way out ahead of them. He wasn’t above a friendly, underhanded jab, but he’d rather not spoil whatever surprise might be lurking in the future.

“I’ll ask someone out as soon as you pop the question.”

Thrust’s engines made a startled chuffing sound, and he shot Blade a look that appeared both unamused and somewhat cornered.

“Man, do _not_ rush me on this.” Big, bad Thrust could slalom radial G’s through buildings in a metropolis (and incur the resulting TMST fine) without a flinch, but asking his longtime girlfriend to marry him sent him into a panic? Blade would pay big money for a picture of his face right now to slap on a poster and hang on his wall.

“I cannot rush what does not move.” 

“Jerk. It works for us.”

“You’ve been dating for almost two decades.” Not something that bothered Blade in the least, but bringing it up bothered Thrust, so he was obligated to poke at it. Friendly-like, of course.

“And you’ve been _not_ dating for almost three.”

“Touché.” Blade would let him have that, but he wasn’t quite ready to give up the ghost. “That said, invite me to the wedding, and I’ll bring a date.”

Thrust gave Blade the most torn, frustrated look he’d seen on his face.

“That’s a dirty move.” 

“If I want to win this argument, I have to appeal to your guttermind.”

“You’re a terrible friend who likes to watch me suffer.”

“ ‘Hello, Pot. My name is Kettle. Have we met?’ “

Ah, good times.

They should wrap this private conversation up, though, before Orbit started breezing through channels looking for them. She was already starting to ease off her throttle and let them catch her.

As they rounded the next hill, something caught Blade’s eye. The bright floodlights of a ground crew were common, given the circumstances, but not all of them consisted of a UTV, telehandler, two track loaders and a skid-steer. Several of them were milling about in the woods, and Blade watched as a tree seemed to just disappear. This was followed by several loud whoops of enthusiasm. Yup, that was them, sure as he had eyes.

He could clearly see Dynamite’s crisp ‘22’ as he approached, and he sent her radio a quiet alert. Nothing that required a response; just to let her know he was there. He saw her turn to look as he passed, and smiled softly to himself when she opened the channel.

“G’night, boss.” 

“Good night, Dynamite. Isn’t it time for you guys to rotate out, soon?”

“Yeah, relief is on their way in, but we aren’t done here yet.” She sounded tired, but her voice carried the notes common to all his ground crew when something had stoked their attention and rallied their energy.

“Do I even want to know?” He kinda did. He peeled off from Thrust, taking a single, slow loop above the fresh firebreak.

“Did you _see_ that crew from Colorado? They crested the hills around Keelhaul Gorge in twelve hours! From the _valley floor!_ I would call that ridiculous, but this is our turf, and we’re gonna do them one better. We’re gonna make the bluffs behind Rail Ridge before we come off the line tonight.” Blade could hear more raucous shouts of fervor through Dynamite’s radio. He’d chalk it up to the zeal of youth; they’d been out here for days straight, and were certainly more tired and achy than he was, and it hadn’t slowed them down in the least.

“Psh, how about just putting out this entire flank of the fire? That’ll really impress ‘em.”

“Now that’s just stupid.” Blade barked a laugh. Even Dynamite had her limits, it seemed.

“Long as you’re all back in as few separate pieces as possible.”

“Copy that.”

Blade leveled out his yaw and set a direct course back to base. Dipper and Windlifter were back already, and Cabbie had been pulled from shuttle duty for the day. With the Smokejumpers confirmed to be intact and in high spirits, all of his own were accounted for. And at the end of the day, that was all he needed.

“They sound like fun kids.” 

Blade had almost forgotten about Thrust, currently just overhead.

“They are. They keep me feeling young. Or old. It really depends.” Thrust just snorted a laugh.

Orbit pulled her throttle enough to match their pace.

“Thrust, if we’re gonna have enough fuel to reach our host air strip for the night, we’d better get a move on.” She sounded somewhat reluctant, which Blade understood fully, but their meetings had ended similarly many times before.

“Why do that? We’ve got an air base right here in the park.” The Lockheed clearly had other plans, this time around. Blade felt that creeping sense of foreboding crawl over his plating.

“Our flight plan is already logged, Thrust. The tower is expecting us.”

“I’ll call ‘em and change it, then.”

“Wait, Thrust—!“ But it was far too late to stop him; he throttled his engines, and left Blade and Orbit in the dust as he made a break for Piston Peak Air Base. That was the part that Blade liked best: the universe had seen fit to bless Thrust with _three_ Rolls-Royce turbofan engines. Not even in a steep dive with a tailwind on her best day could even Orbit catch him. Sarcasm, sarcasm.

Orbit sighed, and shot Blade a look.

“Well, looks like that’s happening. I’m sure Incident Command will just love having him come barging through.” She gave Blade a slightly worried look. “Is your runway long enough to handle him?”

“We’ll find out. Either he’ll act like the professional he is and adapt, or come in ballistic, overshoot the taxiway, and flatten scores of people.”

“Fantastic.” Orbit gave a long-suffering sigh. She was clearly a saint; Thrust was overwhelming when Blade saw him once a year. He couldn’t imagine living with the guy.

“If it makes you feel any better, we used to have a DC-10 stationed with us who navigated our tarmac with no problems.” Except for that one time where his wingtip clipped the old tower, but she didn’t need to know about that.

“Then at least if he screws this up, it’s on him. Can I have your tower channel? I might as well let them know were coming.”

“I’m already on it.” He queued his radio up for Patch. She’d want to know why she was staring down the intakes of a plane half again Cabbie’s size.

Blade would be lying if he said he wasn’t somewhat excited. He had a feeling that his old friends would mesh quite well with his new ones. They were all the same kinds of crazy. He fully anticipated having all his past dirt dug up and spread around for all to see, from both camps. He counted himself lucky. At least when life found a suitable time to embarrass him, it surrounded him with all the people who would eventually find out anyways. And sometimes he even laughed about it later.

He did, however, decide that he would make a serious endeavor to encourage Thrust and Orbit to go to bed before the Smokejumpers got back. If Thrust met even a single one of them before morning, it would be too soon.

Blade liked his sleep uninterrupted, thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because there is no way that Blade hasn't made boatloads of contacts in the many years he's been doing his job.
> 
> This chapter was both fun and made me cringe; adding OCs to fan fiction is something I try not to do, only because they can easily upset the balance created by canon characters. That, and it is really easy to start getting Mary Sue/Gary Stu-ish if one isn't careful with character development. Bleh. I promise, this will not be a frequently occuring thing. Please tell me if I was too heavy-handed in their implementation.
> 
> Thrust Skyhigh and Orbit Slipstream are the only bits I own in here. Blah, blah disclaimer blah.
> 
> Words!
> 
> Lockheed L-1011 (pronounced L ten eleven) TriStar: one of only a few civilian craft produced by Lockheed Martin. All models of this aircraft really do have three Rolls-Royce turbofan engines. They can go Mach .95 if they push their speeds, and after talking to someone who worked with the planes, can apparently perform barrel rolls. I was flabbergasted.
> 
> Incident Command: This is established frequently with large incidents involving either multiple companies or multiple agencies. It unifies the chain of command, and maintains the span of control for all officers.
> 
> CAL FIRE/CDF (California Department of Forestry): This is rather self explanatory. As a resident of the Golden State, I'm biased towards them on any given day. We have no idea where Piston Peak is, but since CAL FIRE frequently dispatches planes to wildfires all over the country, they can show up anywhere plants are burning.
> 
> There are typos here. I will find them eventually.
> 
> TL;DR: Planes, yay!


	13. War Stories - Smokejumpers

Dynamite surveyed the fire line, taking stock of wind direction, their position on her GPS, and what she could see of their firebreak with her floodlights. It was dark, about three in the morning, and the fire had been fully contained for over an hour; at this point, they were snuffing what small flames and coals they could while waiting for the rest to burn itself out. The night hours had brought calmer winds, cooler temperatures, and higher humidity, and it had enabled them to get a grip much sooner than she had hoped; with luck, they could be back at base by the afternoon. Which was an uplifting thought; having been out here for a day already, she was ready for a break. And a bath. And a proper refuel, for the love of Chrysler; she was gonna take whatever she could get from Maru’s stash as soon as she was able.

She tried not to pay attention to the clock. Just a few more hours, and their air support would return. They were accustomed to the lengthy stretches alone in the woods, and enjoyed it, else they wouldn’t return year after year, but it was always a subconscious relief when they could hear the vibrating rumble of helicopter rotors and plane turboprops overhead, the louder the better.

Noise reminded Dynamite of her family. Just one child out of almost a dozen, she had grown up barely hearing her own voice unless she was yelling. She could actually hear herself _think_ at Piston Peak, and she loved it, but now that she spent so much of the year away, she found she missed the close-quarters liveliness a bit, too. Fortunately, she had teammates that willingly obliged her.

Her gaze shifted to the side. Well outside the line, in a meadow that had been designated their emergency zone in case things got dicey, Pinecone and Drip were out cold. On days like this, they took naps in shifts, typically two hours. That wasn’t much, two hours sleep in a twenty-four hour day, but they had all gotten used to the constant headache that heralded sleep deprivation.

Pinecone had barely made it to the meadow before knocking out. Dynamite smirked; her newest had proved to be quite the windfall. Almost as big as Avalanche, and with that telescopic boom that gave her an absolutely incredible reach, she’d filled a niche that had made the rest of their lives much easier. High-up ladder fuels beware. Even better, the girl busted her aft with the rest of them like it was no big deal. Granted, it was her third year with them, and she’d earned her stripes and Smokejumper tattoo during her first stint, but she’d adjusted to the brutal hours and strut-breaking work easier than most others Dynamite had trained; even Blade had been impressed (and that was _damned_ hard). And she was _so nice_. Dynamite knew her own issues with her temper, and she would not touch on the simmering volcano that was Avalanche, so she wholeheartedly appreciated Pinecone’s relative sanity. She was the Team Softie; even when they argued with each other, their emotional equalibrium resided firmly in Pinecone’s chassis, and she could gently calm a fight like no one Dynamite had seen in her life. Usually. Their team could give any therapist a run for their money. Drip said that they were perfectly sane, they just had too much character for everyone else.

Speaking of, the track loader was out cold, snoring softy, in a somewhat uncomfortable-looking position as he leaned against Pinecone’s side. That was right where he’d stopped, checking Pinecone worriedly when she’d passed out almost before her wheels stopped turning. Dynamite had heard his engine give a stuttering cough, cut out abruptly, and he’d keeled over right there. Fortunately, Pinecone outweighed him by well over a ton, and even supporting at least half his weight didn’t wake her in the least. Drip had been known to twitch in his sleep (if not something more active; Blackout and Avalanche had a great deal of pictures they’d managed to take only by choking down their laughter and fighting back tears), but even he was far too exhausted to move anything, even that one tread that was not quite completely on the ground.

He’d arrived a couple years prior to Pinecone, and had received mixed reviews upon his introduction. Blackout and Avalanche had adopted him immediately, and Drip’s two new big brothers had stewarded him around the base as roughly as big brothers do. This had led to several encounters with Maru about various dents, scratches and foreign objects of the vegetation variety, which Maru found humorous until it had become excessive. Drip had taken to sneaking quietly up to the repair bay, breaking the news to the mechanic as gently as possible, and trying very hard to look as inoffensive as he was able. Turns out, it was pretty darn effective; Drip had a soft little baby face that could look downright pitiful when he wanted, what with the lip-chewing and whatever clearly illegal thing he could do with his eyes. Maru had years of experience of handling people with stupid injuries, and Dynamite was sure that Drip had never been quite as effectual against the purple tug as he had been lead to believe; Maru rarely stayed mad at anyone for any real length of time, innocent baby face or not. That, and watching Drip waddle into the bay with what looked like an entire sapling sticking out of his tailpipe was _funny_. And karma. He stopped being stupid after that.

But the baby face had met its match abruptly when it encountered Blade’s visage of razor-edged ice. Drip was friendly and outgoing, amazingly so, but it had taken a few tests before he’d learned Blade’s boundaries of friendliness, namely ‘if you’re inside his rotor disc, you’re too close.’ Also, ‘approach before he’s had his coffee at your own risk.’ Blade had scowled at him for a while after those rough initial greetings, but Drip was a fast leaner and an avid team player, and the Chief had eventually softened to the idea of keeping him around, even if he waited until the last week of the season to offer Drip a permanent position.

Dynamite heard a sharp crack, and turned to see Avalanche doing what he did best, moving large amounts of heavy debris that would make anyone else bust a strut. The sound was him snapping a smoldering log in half, still glowing red in places (especially on the now-exposed inside). The smaller pieces where easier to maneuver, and Dynamite watched him heft cunks of burning wood deeper into the burn area. Sometimes she wondered if he was capable of feeling pain; he’d used his weight and his treads to crush the log, and just the idea of scraping her own undercarriage over hot coals made her cringe a bit. Not an endorsed tactic by any reasoning, but Avalanche had always been a ‘results justifies the means’ kind of guy.

This had caused some issues with Blade upon his arrival. Years before Drip, and even before Blackout, Dynamite remembered the chastising he’d receive from both the Chief and the then Smokejumper Captain. Fine technique was not usually Avalanche’s thing, and it had taken a while for Blade to beat it through his thick carapace that he couldn’t just brute force a fire into submission. Once Avalanche had his taste of his first burn over, he’d paid more attention. Let it never be said that he was too recalcitrant to be trainable.

Once his pride and stubbornness had been tamed, he picked up new ideas and tactics faster that she’d predicted. She supposed it was familiar territory for him; building construction required some ability to think on one’s tires, and Avalanche had been doing that for years. His father owned a company, apparently, and both Avalanche and his older brother had worked the sites since they were sixteen. Had been exposed to the noise and dirt and crush of people since they were twelve. Maru joked that it was there that Avalanche forever lost his ‘inside voice.’

Even skeptics had been won over by his work ethic; Avalanche had no problems with heavy, dirty work in less that ideal conditions for prolonged periods of time. Quite the contrary, he enjoyed it. When a fall rain had produced mudslides in the park, no one was more enthusiastic about helping than Avalanche. When evening had fallen and the entire rest of the team was ready to leave the sucking, sticky mud for a dry hangar, they’d almost had to drag Avalanche out with them; she remembered finding him so deep in silt that his treads chewed it out through his drive wheels as he moved, and it was caked almost to the lights on his canopy. Once they were back on base, he’d headed out towards the edges of the property instead of jostling for a turn at the power washer like everyone else. Dawn had revealed his hard work; the dirt hills around the base had been shored up and graded, reinforced here and there with logs. In some areas, impromptu but ultimately effective retaining walls had been erected to keep the mud off the tarmac. Patch had found Avalanche that morning, asleep outside and still muddy as hell. Blade had regarded him with that unreadable expression that could mean a wide variety of things, before retrieving him from the soggy field himself. That was as much a seal of approval as anything. Granted, the dozer’s wake-up call had come in the form of a sharp rap on the canopy with one of Blade’s rotors, but Avalanche had paid note to the sentiment well before he’d ever come to realize Blade had pretty much just slapped him awake. The ends justified the means.

All the shifts post his first had gone much more smoothly. Brashness aside, he was a nice guy, if a bit overwhelming. Loud and aggressive, sure, but there was never any malice in it, and he made a surprisingly good listener when one needed to vent. Once they’d added Blackout, Avalanche’d met his match; while smaller and lighter, Blackout was tough enough to handle Avalanche’s rough brand of friendly affection, and dish it right back out. This made Blade roll his eyes, and caused more than one person to pepper a conversation with a ‘Wondertwin powers, activate!’ joke.

There was a sharp whistle from up the line, and Dynamite watched Blackout motion to a nearby tree and wait for Avalanche’s reply. Watching these two work without saying any real words was always fun. The dozer sent back a nod and backed swiftly out of the way. The tree in question was almost fully engulfed, especially within the needles of the crown, and was leaning dangerously in a manner that might bring it down across the line. Blackout sliced a thick wedge out of the trunk and gave it a nudge, sending it falling back inwards towards the burn. Good eyes; Blackout had caught it even before she had, and even now was moving up the line looking for more like it as Avalanche took care of the log.

Out of all of them, Blackout had the most fire experience. Before his arrival in the park, he’d worked at a large inner city department at a double house. He’d been part of the wild land/urban interface strike team, and had loved brushfire calls more than any other. When Piston Peak’s smokejumper roster had an opening, he’d lateraled over, and it had been a match made in heaven. His actual fire training with them had been minimal, and he was confident on his first jump. He was pretty confident with most things, really.

If Drip was too friendly and Avalanche was too brash, Blackout was too eager. He knew standard operation procedures and tactics, and could recite them back word for word, but he got tunnel vision something _fierce_ when he worked. If you told him to clear a stand of trees ten yards wide, he’d give you a space twenty yards wide before he realized he was done. His short-term memory was not always the best (he blamed that incident with the power-line post that he’d sworn was a tree), but he could recall things from the previous fire season that Dynamite could never remember. He had good sense, too; his scene size-up ability was spot on, and if he could keep his head together, he made a good officer. When they’d lost their former captain, Dynamite had been certain that Blackout would get the promotion, and he’d had her vote to back it up. Turns out, _he’d_ voted for _her_ , along with the rest of them. When she’d asked him about it, he’d just smiled and shrugged, and told her the position was better suited for her than it was for him; he was more a details guy than a big picture guy anyways. Even so, her opinion stood; if anything ever happened to her—heaven forbid—she was confident that Blackout would pick up the reins and get the team to safety. She was sure Blade knew it too; Dynamite had dropped enough hints.

She felt someone nudge her flank, hard. She shook her mind clear of the fog she didn’t know was in it, and looked to see Blackout staring her in the face.

“Hey, been calling your name for the last few minutes. You’ve been staring at that one spot for a while.”

Had she? Cripes. And he’d noticed? Double cripes.

“Uhg, sorry. What’s the issue?” Did it jump the line? Spot fires? High winds?

“No issue, just you.” He regarded her for a moment, tinged with mild concern that made her feel both touched and irritated. “Take next break with Avalanche. Pinecone, Drip and I will handle the rest.” 

“Naw, I’m alright. You’ve been busting your aft in there for twenty hours. Drip and Pinecone have another fourty-five minutes, then you and ‘Lanche can tap out.” _She_ was the Captain of this team. If anyone was going to see this project clear through to the end, it would be _her_. It looked damned sorry when the one in charge took breaks before her crew had theirs.

“Then what’s two more hours gonna do to me? We got this in the bag, which means you get to relax.”

“I’m fine, Blackout. Really. Take next break.” And she used that tone of voice she reserved for giving orders. He either didn’t notice (unlikely), or had decided that he just didn’t care at the moment (much more likely).

“You sure?” Dynamite felt her temper flare a bit. 

 _Yes_.

 _No_. No, she wasn’t. Even just sitting here she’d had to blink to clear her vision far more than she would have liked. She’d been more tired than this before, they all had, but for some reason she couldn’t quite power through it. Maybe it was this terrible forest, spinning dizzyingly around her. Which was bad. Forests didn’t spin.

Her common sense kicked her ego to the corner and stared it down. The fire was contained, with no signs of spot fires. They had been two crewmembers short of full operation capacity for an hour and fifteen minutes, and it had still been smooth sailing. They had this. _Blackout_ had this. Which was good, ‘cause she was slipping something ferocious right now. Nothing a short snooze wouldn’t fix, though. Her exhaustion flopped all over what fight remained in her stubbornness, and she relented.

“Alright. But you will wake me back up if _anything_ happens.”

That’s all she would give him. And that’s all he needed. He grinned at her, and made his way back up the firebreak. He shot Avalanche a triumphant smirk as he passed him, which the track loader returned. Big lug was in on it, huh? Dynamite groaned; she wondered how long they had sat there watching her lose her mind. She heaved a sigh, and pushed the mind-fog aside for a few minutes more. She’d get her relief in just a short while longer.

In the meantime, though, there was still a fire on this hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Smokejumpers. I can't ever get enough.


	14. War Stories - Smokejumpers & Cabbie III

“It’s Cabbie!”

“It’s not Cabbie.”

“Yes it is! Just look at the face!”

“You can hardly see his face, given the angle it was taken at.” 

“Never mind the picture is as old as he is.”

“Still, there’s no way that’s _not_ him.” 

“Not like he’s the only C-119 ever built.”

“I swear on my life.”

“Then how would you like to die?”

“WHY DON’T WE JUST ASK ‘IM?”

“Because then we have to admit that we were in his hangar again.”

Avalanche snuffed a sigh, and took another languid sip of his mid-grade. This had been the current conversation-go-round for the last few minutes. Another prank had been in the works, with Cabbie’s things once again the target (mainly because it garnered a reaction without the imminent threat of death…usually). Today’s thief of the hour had been Drip; with Cabbie seeing Maru for a minor tune-up, the time was ripe for a little friendly klepto action. They hadn’t really decided on what to take, so they left it up to his discretion. The normal rules applied: nothing irreplaceable or highly personal. Everything else was fair game. Like that one time Blackout had come out with the most recent newspaper. They’d scoffed at him, until it prompted Cabbie’s day-long search for his second-favorite pass time. So simple, yet so epic. They’d coughed it up only when Cabbie had stalked poor Pinecone against a hangar wall and asked, in a chillingly calm but otherwise polite voice, if she possibly had _any_ clue where his paper might _possibly_ have gone. They’d rescued her only with the help of an elaborate “hey, look over there!” tactic. And Windlifter’s assistance. They had thanked the big guy profusely.

When Drip had returned today with just one small square of paper, they’d wondered if he’d lost his mind. He’d been oddly ecstatic, too. Upon inspection, it had prompted the vigorous discussion that had carried on for the last half-hour.

It was an old photograph of a plane, a crisply painted double-tailed Fairchild in USAF livery. This one, however, bore a port side that bristled with artillery, a prow infrared scanner, and a pair of turbojet engine pods. An honest-to-Chrysler AC-119K Stinger. The glare in the picture, however, meant it was impossible to clearly make out both the plane’s tail number or face. The argument had erupted from there. Drip swore up and down that it was Cabbie. Blackout was the opposite, and sat firmly on the idea that it wasn’t. Dynamite and Pinecone fiddled in the middle ground, but leaned a bit towards Drip’s point of view; the same reasons that Blackout said the image was far too indistinct to be Cabbie also meant it was too indistinct to _not_ be Cabbie. Avalanche himself reserved judgment. All the arguments were compelling, and it would be damned cool if the old guy had really been a gunship before his retirement. Even if it wasn’t true, he was still impressed; old guy had spent years getting shot at and emerged not too worse for the wear.

“So… are we gonna ask?”

“Might as well. Blade’ll notice something’s up if we stay in this creepy huddle behind Dipper’s hangar.”

“Or, y’know, _Dipper_ will notice.”

“Dipper doesn’t put the fear in me, though.”

“Point.”

“So is this a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

“Yeah, let’s go. I gotta know, and it’s not like he isn’t already aware that we josh him on a regular basis. Probably why he’s been putting all his things up on some really high shelves lately.” 

“As long as Drip does it. I took the scowl last time.” 

The small procession made their way towards the repair bay, with Drip in the lead. Blackout was at his back bumper both to prevent him from bolting and to give himself a front row seat to what he was sure would be his impending victory. Drip however, picked up speed as they got closer, clearly now just as interested to fish out some answers as everyone else. Avalanche slowly brought up the rear. No matter which way it went, he had a gut feeling that they were gonna learn something cool.

Cabbie was out in front of the bay, in what seemed to a quiet, idle chat with Maru. The tug was up on the scissor lift, having removed the front most cover of Cabbie’s left engine to reach the pistons. Cabbie was far too large to fit more than what was fore of his engines inside the bay; most of his repairs happened out on the taxiway. Maru seemed to like it, giving him an excuse to get out of the garage, even if it was still just a few short feet away.

Cabbie’s eyes narrowed slightly at their approach. Avalanche smirked around the lip of his mid-grade; ancient he may be, but his danger!instincts were still well honed.

“Do I even want to know why you’re all here?” Cabbie felt all sorts of unease as the small group huddled in front of him. Especially when Blackout gave Drip a firm push forwards. This could not mean good things.

“All together too?” Maru looked over long enough to give them a quick appraisal. “What’d ya break?”

“Nothing, actually,” Dynamite replied. Maru looked almost suspicious. “Really! Nothing is broken.”

“Except Drip’s eyes.”

“Except Blackout’s brain!”

“HEY! I DON’T HEAR ANY QUESTIONS BEING ASKED UP IN THE FRONT!” 

The kids had questions? If Cabbie wasn’t nervous before, he was now. He knew the kind of out-of-pocket stuff these punks could think of. Blackout gave Drip another rough nudge, which rewarded him with a soft growl before the track loader held something out for Cabbie to see.

“Cabbie, is this you?”

Cabbie regarded the photograph in Drip’s claw, and he bit down hard on a surprised cough. He’d unearthed that very item from deep in an old stack of things just recently. 

“Where’d you get this?” Entirely rhetorical; if the jumpers had it, it meant they’d been rifling through his stuff again. It usually didn’t make him half as angry as he let on. Deep down he enjoyed that the tight-knit group included him in whatever playful nonsense they concocted, even if it usually led to some sort of terrible headache. Looking at the fifty-year old picture, though, he wasn’t too sure how he felt. It dragged up all sorts of old emotions, some good and others not so much.

“Your hangar.” Drip fidgeted just slightly under the glower that followed. “I was going for the newspaper again, but you put it, like, _way_ up on the shelf where I couldn’t reach it. I was gonna grab something else, but I saw this just lying under some other stuff, and I forgot to take anything for the actual prank.”

Cabbie snorted. The scamps liked to kidnap his hobbies and past-times, but they’d never before run off with something that he found truly valuable. Not that he schlepped much of that sort of stuff out here for work; no real reason to remove it from his home. He did find it a bit amusing that what had promised to become a slightly aggravating afternoon spent searching for his own things had been entirely derailed by one old photo. He’d need to leave more stuff like that lying around to prevent the theft of far less cherished items. The irony.

“Soooooo… you?” Drip looked positively hopeful, like an affirmation would prove that Cabbie’s secret identity was Superman. Blackout looked hopeful too, but also like he was suppressing a sneer.

“No, it’s not me.”

“Yuss!” Blackout crowed. Drip looked absolutely crushed. Pinecone looked a little disappointed, and Dynamite just shrugged. Avalanche didn’t appear to have an opinion, but that can of mid-grade had been adhered to his mouth for the entirety of this engagement. Drip looked back down at the picture in his claw. Cabbie could never quite figure out how this kid’s expressions could make him feel like he’d run over a kitten. What was he, twenty-something? Too old to be able to do that with his face.

“If it ain’t you, who is he?” Pinecone fidgeted a bit; while not anywhere near as tight-lipped as Blade regarding his past, she knew Cabbie hadn’t even scratched the surface of exhausting the stories of what he did before coming to Piston Peak.

“That’s a friend of mine, from decades ago.” He was going to leave it at that, but it appeared he had roused the interest of all five jumpers. Pinecone brushed Blackout aside to take a place right next to Drip, who promptly shut off his engine and settled into his treads. Now comfortable, he looked excitedly from the photograph, to Pinecone, to Cabbie. The punks were that curious, huh? He supposed it couldn’t hurt.

“During and after the Korean War, all the USAF C-119s saw heavy use for paradrop and paratrooper deployment. They pulled most of us from front-line service in the sixties, during Vietnam. When they needed more heavy bombers—most were posted for work on Ho Chi Minh Trail—many of us volunteered for the re-outfitting process. It didn’t take much convincing; we’d all already seen heavy combat, so the retraining would be minimal. Titled Project Gunship III, those that went in came out as AC-119G Shadows. The program worked so well, they even added a second model upgrade.” Cabbie nodded to the photo in Drip’s claw. “This guy here, old wing member of mine, was one of the second wave. Nice guy. Grade-A crazy. A damn good shot with those two Vulcans they gave him, too.” Cabbie could not suppress a soft smile. Even when conditions were absolutely deplorable, his wing mate was always upbeat. He had no filter on his mouth, but he made people laugh. Cabbie credited his sanity upon retirement to the guy.

Blackout looked thoughtful.

“If it worked out so well, why not you? Or everybody, for that matter.”

“The program, while successful, only remodeled so many of us. That, and the new, young AC-130 Ghostriders and Stinger IIs were raring to go, and they did a bang-up job. Smaller than us, but faster.”

“I told you it wasn’t him.” Blackout smirked at Drip, who stuck his tongue out at him. He _was_ twenty-something, right? Blackout bolted from the huddle, racing back towards the jumper hangar. “Taking that bottle of high-grade you’ve been hiding behind your loading dock as a reward!” he called back as he went.

“Hey, not fair! I’m still gonna drink that!” Drip pivoted around and made to follow.

“You kids wouldn’t be referring to that lovely-looking bottle that I saw Blade taking to his office earlier this morning, would you?” Maru sat back from where he was examining the inside of Cabbie’s engine to look down at them. It was now probably sitting on Blade’s desk as a paperweight, in plain view, daring Drip to come get it back. Cabbie shared a knowing grin with the tug; none of them had the lug nuts to attempt a rescue from Blade. Maybe when the world was ending.

Drip stopped cold. Pinecone gave a small gasp. Dynamite rolled her eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh. Avalanche was still idly watching Cabbie, continuing to sip enthusiastically on his beverage. 

“Every damned time…” Blade had a nose for these kinds of things, and Dynamite knew it was only a matter of time before they would get another aft chewing for bringing high-grade on base. She gave Maru a stare. Whatever ninja skills or black magic he used to keep his stash safe, she wanted it.

“We are so scrapped.” Drip knew it was coming, too. And Blade had taken it from his space, so he was destined to take the brunt of the Chief’s ire. He began to make his own dash for the hangar; it was a terrible hiding place, but it would keep him out of the open until he discovered a better one. Dynamite and Pinecone shared a glance and followed him. The last time he’d hid from Blade, he’d done it so well that he’d gotten stuck; they’d actually had to forcefully extricate him.

Cabbie gave a snort. Blade was probably going to let them stew in their apprehension for a while before summoning them for their reprimand. They could take whatever precautions they wanted, that ball was rolling and there was no stopping it.

“I would hide that better next time!” he called after them. He heard Maru’s dry cackle from somewhere under his wing.

And then there was one. Avalanche was still sitting on the tarmac, gaze glued to Cabbie’s flank. Something there had caught his attention, and the veteran had a pretty damned good idea what it was.

“What are you staring at?”

The dozer looked from Cabbie’s side to Cabbie’s face, clearly mulling something over. The warplane could almost see him connecting some dots. 

“NOTHING. JUST… NOTHING.” ‘Nothing’ Cabbie’s right tailfin. Even so, Avalanche gave a slow pivot before following lazily after his teammates. “HEY DRIP! YOU STILL GOT AHOLD OF CABBIE’S PHOTO?”

“Sometimes I wonder if he’s not half as thick as he lets on.” Maru watched him go as he tightened the last bolt onto Cabbie’s engine cover. “Start that up for me, tell me how it feels.”

“Kid’s craftier than you know. Sometimes I think he’s irritating just so that no one catches on to him.” Cabbie waited a moment for Maru to lower the lift before putting power to his port engine. It purred as he added thrust. Smooth as butter, like always. He was pretty sure that Maru’s diligent work was what kept him in shape enough to handle this job.

“Those are some pretty paternal words, right there. Are you sure you don’t have some huge family squirreled away that we don’t know about?” Maru gathered his tools, barely pausing as he shot Cabbie a smirk.

“Hmph. Why have kids when the powers that be have deemed it appropriate to inflict those five upon me?”

“Because you like them.”

“Children in general, or these scamps?”

“Yes.”

Cabbie chuckled as he cut power to his engine. Maru was not wrong, really. He’d only admit it aloud when he was on his deathbed, though.

“He’s certainly got some sharp eyes. I hafta admit, I have wondered about those old, soldered panels on your port flank.” Maru gave him a quick once over, right about the same spots Avalanche had been staring at.

“What panels would you be referring to?”

Cabbie knew. And from the look on Maru’s face, so did he. A series of four panels, uniform in size and shape, scattered down the midline of his flank, just under his wing. Soldered shut and smoothed many, many decades ago, but Cabbie still occasionally could feel the ghosts of what had been there. 

“So if I dug through that medical history file you gave me years ago, how likely am I to find a Change of Model form in there?” Once Cabbie’s propellers came to a complete stop, Maru took the time to glance over each of them. 

“Find _one_? Not very likely. But if you were looking for _two_ …”

“New designation didn’t stick, huh?” Maru grinned from around a broad propeller blade.

“They don’t let you keep your munitions when you’re decommissioned back to civilian work. And this is my original model. I like it.”

“Didn’t feel like telling them?”

“Naw.” Cabbie gave Maru a soft smirk. “But when I finally kick the bucket, I authorize you to show them the paperwork.”

“Will do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Cabbie is super old, and he's still got enough juicy secrets to bury a small town. Having been a Shadow is just one of the many he sits on.
> 
> Fairchild AC-119G Shadow/AC-119K Stinger: Two models of heavy gunship developed during Vietnam. Since most of the new Lockheed AC-130 Spectres and Spookies were patrolling Ho Chi Minh Trail, they had an immediate need of more heavy air assault. The rugged, flexible C-119s fit the bill, and performed so well they built upon the original AC-119G Shadows. The Stingers had the additional underwing jet pots for more speed, and a pair of M61 Vulcan cannons in addition to the four miniguns. 
> 
> Lockheed AC-130 Series (Spectres/Spookies/Ghostriders/Stinger IIs): A large, heavy gunship developed during the Vietnam War and still in use by the USAF today. These are big, four-engined turboprop craft that carry so many cannons it's almost ridiculous. Some are also equipped with missiles. For funsies, I guess, at that point.
> 
> Blah blah typos blah. Fix 'em when I find them blah.


	15. War Stories - Dipper & Windlifter

Dipper sighed as she took another slow pass around the meadow. Another miss. One would think she'd never taken aim at anything in her life. At least she was alone, without the scary chief staring at her back.

She was just two days into her training, and it was not going as smoothly as she'd thought it would be. She'd never fully put her tanks to any real vigorous use (except as ballast, sometimes), and getting used to then dropping the contents onto a fire with any accuracy was a new skill for her. And it showed, painfully. Most of the other firefighters at Piston Peak didn't make any comment, but the resident chief had a  _lot_  to say about it. Most of it in that dry, sardonic lilt that forever tinged his voice.

In short, nothing like hauling cargo in Alaska.

Dipper decided that if she ever wanted to crawl out from under her own inexperience, she would need to be proactive. After breakfast and chores (she helped because staying at someone else's place and expecting a free ride was just plain rude), she'd excused herself and headed out towards the lake. Now that she had the hang of loading water while moving across the surface (her first attempt had ended up a bit, erm, sloppier than she would have liked; she was glad her engines sat high on her wings), Dipper decided that she would fix the issue with her aim. Too high, too low, too fast, too slow,  _what the hell was that!?_  She'd heard it all from Chief Ranger's mouth on a regular basis.

She'd flown around for a bit before finding a suitable target. A sole tree in a meadow, split by lightning but still growing, was something easy to pick out as a marker. She'd been attacking it for several minutes now, making drops and then circling around to look at the pattern left by the water. She gave another sigh, it was harder than it looked. At least the grass around the tree got watered.

"Slow down."

Dipper stifled a surprised squeak when her radio crackled. She completed her bank around the meadow, and could see the highly distinguishable shape of a Skycrane hovering just inside the tree line. How had she missed him? Sucker was huge, especially for a chopper, and a quick check readily brought him up on her radar. She sighed again (she needed to stop that before it became a habit). Heaven forbid she loose track of herself on a real fire; had this been active airspace, she could be looking at a collision. Having her bits strewn about the wilderness was something she'd really rather not experience.

Windlifter didn't comment about her lapse in attention, which Dipper found almost refreshing. Chief Ranger's lieutenant was far quieter than his commanding officer, and tended to keep most of his opinions to himself. Even his rank hadn't ever been formally announced, but Dipper noted that Blade was quick to pass the baton to the Sikorsky whenever he needed to split his attention widely around the fire ground, or had to leave base for longer than a few minutes (like when he'd up and left for a meeting with the new park superintendent; he'd returned in an even more acidic mood than normal). Maru might tout some heft on the ground, but when the tone went out and the chief wasn't around, even the overly enthusiastic ground crew and their massive drop plane took Windlifter's command seriously. He always seemed happy to lay the reins squarely back in Blade's control, though.

Wait. What had he just told her? Something something speed something?

"H-huh?"

Well, wasn't that eloquent. Now she just sounded daft.

"When you come in for a drop, you are moving too fast. Almost at your cruising speed. Slow down."

Even his critiques where low-key and even tempered. Come to think of it, she didn't think she'd heard any inflection in his voice greater than "relaxation."

Relaxation was an emotion now.

"O-okay. Copy that." Her speed, again? Cripes. She completed her circuit back towards him, expecting to follow him back to base, when he gave a small nod in the direction of the lake.

"Again."

He wanted her to make another drop? Alright. It was rather more uncomfortable to practice with an audience, but she didn't see a ready way to escape aside from fleeing outright. Dipper tilted her wingtips to bank towards the lake. Windlifter didn't so much as budge from his position. She reloaded off the water again—wow, that had sure gotten easy since the first time—and returned to the meadow. Windlifter was right where she'd left him, hovering silently. Well, as silently as his massive six-bladed rotor assembly would allow. Even from a thousand feet away she could see the wide circle that his wash created, and the Smokejumpers told some fantastic stories about the things they'd seen him haul around. Dipper had watched him clip a tree with those blades, literally; stiff winds off the lake had caused him to list violently while taking on water, pushing him into the tree line. His rotors had dipped into foliage that would give most rotary aircraft serious problems, but Windlifter had barely even blinked when his blades sheared through several lighter branches before he was able to regain control. Like a lawnmower, but with bits of trees. Chief Ranger had proceeded to vigorously prohibit Dipper from reloading off the lake, or else, and she had not objected; anything that could plow a Skycrane through a forest with no effort was not something she'd wanted any part of.

She aligned herself with the disfigured tree and pulled some power. Windlifter's voice crackled over the radio as she approached.

"The tree marks the fire head. Slow rate of spread, winds out of the northwest."

"Dipper copies."

She opened her tanks a few dozen yards before the tree, hoping to catch in in the swathe of water she aimed to create. She pulled up and around, taking a look at her drop area. Windlifter was still hovering off the meadows edge, his eyes fixed on her drop target.

Well, it sure looked a bit better. Maybe?

"Again."

Or maybe not. She stifled a sigh—slaggit!—and headed back towards the lake to reload. Hm, maybe next time she wouldn't dump the whole thing at once and save herself another trip. Windlifter rumbled over the radio as she loaded her tanks.

"Do not forget to factor your movement into how you time your drop. Your water will move with you, to a point. If your open your tank too early, you'll miss your target entirely. Your speed also dictates how dense your drop is. Too fast, and the water is too sparse to stop anything. Too slow, and you end up placing it all in a very small area, and you'll need more trips to finish a line."

"Copy that." It was the most words she'd ever heard him say in a row, and she doubted she'd ever hear such a speech from him in the near or distant future. She drew off the lake again, before banking back to her tree. Windlifter was settled on the ground this time, apparently bored with hovering in the air.

She was so intent on minding her speed and watching her aim that she clean forgot to split her load, only noticing her empty tanks when she closed her bay doors. Well, damn. Disheartened, she mumbled and took yet another lap around the meadow, pointing her wings back towards the lake again. No sense in prolonging the inevitable. Her radio crackled again.

"Better."

Dipper took a moment to smooth the shock off of her face before struggling to suppress a grin. That was the best thing she'd heard all day. Considering that the Skycrane wasn't talkative, she considered that mild note a compliment. She didn't think she'd ever get an acclimation like "wow," "great," or anything, but she was hopeful that she could at least pull a "good" out of him at some point.

"Again?" She wondered if she could recreate whatever gold had just happened. Windlifter gave her a small nod.

Her radio gave a quiet, static hiss as someone else joined their channel.

"Windlifter, do you copy?" It was Patch, in that even, crisp voice that meant she was heavily multitasking. Dipper felt the squirming in her tank and the prickly sensation along her wings that heralded her apprehension. Sounded like go time. She was excited though; she'd made headway! With any luck, it would show once she was allowed to put water on a real fire again.

"Go ahead." Windlifter heard it too, and Dipper could see his rotors slowly gain speed as he powered up his engines.

"We have one fire, due northwest of La Parrilla. Located near the valley floor, winds out of the west, moderate rate of spread, but it may speed up if it hits the steep hills. Currently about fifteen acres."

"Windlifter copies." He began to rise into the air, meeting Dipper's gaze before pointing his prow towards the lake. She flipped an easy loop over the forest, prepared to follow, but didn't they need to be heading south? La Parrilla was below the lodge.

"Windlifter." Dipper swallowed. The hard switch from Patch's voice to Blade's stern growl was almost jarring. It also took her easy mood and sent it back face first into her apprehension, which felt about as good as a sharp stick in the eye.

"What is your current location?"

"The new tanker and I are ten clicks south of Anchor Lake."

"Reload off the water. We're going to vee the head of the fire, you and the tanker will have the flanks."

"Windlifter copies."

Windlifter put power to his engines and took off towards the lake, with Dipper following off his tail. She pulled up to his starboard flank, mindful of the impressive span of his rotor disc.

"Windlifter?"

His gaze drifted over towards her even as he began to make his descent towards the water.

"I just wanted to… you know, you didn't have to help me out this morning, and I'm sure you've got better things to do with your time. Like work out, I know you like that, and the Smokejumpers say that those fourteen logs you've got on the lift are small beans that just keep you in shape. Is it true that you pulled a sinking boat out of the lake once?"

He was staring. Damn, she was making this harder than it should have been. She took a deep breath to corral her derailed thoughts.

"Just… thank you. I needed the help."

The Skycrane gave her a long stare as he hovered low over the surface of the water, and she could hear him drop his drafting hose into the lake as she flew past him. She didn't totally expect a response; Dipper doubted that his surprisingly talkative mood today was some sort of herald for future events. Even so, it would be rude not to let him know that his assistance was appreciated. Maybe she'd ask for more pointers at a later date. Windlifter was far more approachable that the Chief ever was.

"Your first drop was alright."

Dipper pulled up once she was loaded, and found that Windlifter had already begun to head for La Parrilla.

"What?"

"Your first drop in the meadow. It was alright." He waited until she had caught up before putting more power to his engines. Not that it mattered; her VNE speed was greater than his, even fully loaded. Still, it was nice of him. He was in an awfully friendly disposition this morning.

"So… then why did you want me to do it again?"

"Now it's more than just 'alright'."

She felt a smirk dance across her face. Crafty old guy. He'd probably borrowed a couple pages from Blade's book (read: never be too encouraging to the newbs, it makes them overconfident), but applied with more of his own unflappable personality than the air boss' biting wit. She found that she didn't really mind.

She fell in line behind him as they approached the massive plume of smoke that obscured the inferno below. That huge, old warplane was making a rapid ascent out of the airspace, beginning to circle slowly way above any altitude that would be considered appropriate for actually working a fire. As she followed Windlifter into their holding pattern, she could see the bright floodlights of the Smokejumpers down below. Blade and the other tanker, a big orange and grey Lockheed P-3 Orion, were busy slowing the fire's advance from the valley floor to the hills. She took a deep breath and squared her wings. Game on. Hopefully it would be enough to avoid the Chief's icy tongue this time.

Dipper felt a soft ping on a private channel. Windlifter opened and closed the connection so swiftly that she almost didn't catch what had been said, returning to the field channel before Blade could notice.

"You're welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY! *bows bows* I know I've been gone for far too long. It's the end of the semester, and it is crunch time for all projects and papers. Also not helping, two of the games I play released expansions and/or new titles, so I've been... ah, absorbed. Slaying lots of things with lots of swords, and the like. I have a couple other chapters already started, and well as a side project in the same universe. Because Thrust is crazy enough to get his own playground away from canon characters. Which is to the benefit of people who avoid OCs. Trust me. :3
> 
> I find Dipper hard as hell to write accurately. Forgive me, Canon Police.
> 
> For all those Windlifter fans (yes, I'm talking to you, you know who you all are), he's also still on deck to get more attention. Because he deserves it.
> 
> Words!
> 
> Sikorsky S-64 Skycrane/CH-54 Tarhe/Erickson S-64 Aircrane: A heavy-lift type helicopter designed specifically for moving large amounts of cargo. The CH-54 is the US Army version. These are not built for speed (Windlifter is the slowest aircraft on the airbase), but their payload is ridiculous, exceeding their own weight. A tree strike is serious beans when you're a helicopter, but I'm letting 'Lifter get away with a small one due to the fact that most helicopters have a steel or titanium abrasion plate at the leading edge of all their rotor blades to protect them. They probably didn't include it for stylistic reasons in the movie, but the vast majority of firefighting helicopters have a hard suction hose to reload off of standing water in the field. Erickson Inc. has been the manufacturer of Aircranes since '92, but Windlifter is much older than that, so he still gets to use his Sikorsky call sign. 
> 
> Blah blah typos blah. Fix 'em when I see 'em, blah.


	16. War Stories - Maru & Blade

Maru knew, deep down, that this was always a possibility. Being a wild land tanker was not for the meek-hearted, and you had to look straight down death’s throat every day; the wilderness had claimed many firefighters before them, and would continue to do so long after they were gone. Even so, it was with his greatest effort that he forcefully buried his emotions when Windlifter set Blade’s crippled frame on the helipad.

Somehow, he never expected it to happen to Blade. Silly notion, of course, but the AgustaWestland had always been in peak condition, and he took regulations and procedures seriously; both his own, and those from the outside. If Maru could count on one person at base to show up for regular maintenance on time, it was Blade. He was practically pre-scheduled (the tug was sure the Agusta kept just as stringent flight time logs as he did). He heavily favored aggressive firefighting tactics, but never at the expense of safety; he would never ask of any of them something he wouldn’t feel confident doing himself. “Everyone goes home.” Blade’d hung those words himself just inside the main hangar, and Maru had it on good authority that he had it in some other highly visible place in his own hangar as well. Everyone on base had signed on the dotted line and put their lives squarely in his control, and never regretted it; he rode them hard and put them up hot, but he was also the first to bring them out if a situation ballooned to a size that far outstripped their capabilities. They’d all been injured before, Blade included, but Maru had never mentally prepared for the day that Blade would ever be dropped into his forks, unconscious and critical.

Those burns were something else, and Maru had seen other craft who would have just plain passed out from the pain. If he’d understood Dusty’s frantic radio transmission correctly, then Blade had been airborne when he’d finally been overcome by his injuries. That sure explained the abrasion and impact damage on Blade’s right side, as well as why three of his rotors were sheared off. If the universe was merciful, then Blade would have been unconscious by the time he’d hit the ground.

Maru pried open the maintenance hatch on Blade’s left side. The heat had seared and melted his hydraulic lines, including the critical ones that fed down towards his tail rotor. Much of the hydraulic fluid had been burnt up and evaporated, and what remain was either blackened and viscous or flowed freely from severed lines. Maru barely remembered any demands he made of the crew; they’d dropped from his mouth faster than he could think about them.

Once inside the bay, it was his world. Those hydraulic lines came first. Thank Chrysler that Maru still had enough that would match Blade’s specs. He spent the next hour and a half tines-deep under Blade’s carapace, replacing blackened and melted components, as well as cleaning the burnt soot from his insides. The heavier cleaning would need to come later; once Blade had recovered (and Maru made a conscious decision to keep that outcome in the forefront of his mind), then he’d bother with putting him through the battery of non-critical procedures to get him back to his usual immaculate condition. 

Maru took a deep breath once the most grave work was done. Blade’s vitals were still well outside of what could be considered normal, but at least they were no longer in free fall. Maru decided that now would be a great time to flush the chopper’s entire system, both to clean it out and to push fluids through him faster. He took note of Blade’s missing tank. According to Windlifter, it was part of the small shrapnel field around Blade’s crash site, having been scraped free when the Agusta slammed his belly into the earth. Maru was worried about that the least; the likes of that was easily repairable. 

The tug idly chewed his tongue as he regarded Blade’s severed rotors. Blade had a unique rotor assembly for his model; most AW139s had five rotor blades in their hub. Blade had only four, which were somewhat broader in build than usual. This didn’t slow him down in the least, but it created difficulties when attempting to match parts to specs. Fortunately, Maru was well practiced at being unconventional in his work. Blade’s rotors were crafted from a composite material, which made raw fabrication difficult (see also: almost impossible; Maru didn’t have a reliable way to craft hydrocarbon-based composites), but he had several other rotors that would match specs well enough once altered. One of Blade’s rotors was undamaged, but Maru removed it for good measure. It was never a good idea to run rotor blades of entirely different makes at once. He set it aside; if he were able, it would form the blueprints for a set of blades more similar to his original ones. As he removed the broken rotors from their attachments, he spared a moment to inspect the main hub. It had held up surprisingly well, with only small amounts of stress visible. He’d give it a florescent penetrant inspection later, but the big titanium assembly had made it through relatively unscathed.

With his consciousness buried so deep in the task at hand, Maru barely noticed his visitors come flitting about the repair bay. He could pick out the sounds associated with each, and his subconscious kept a running tally of everyone who showed up; when he sat back with a sigh a couple hours later, he was surprised to distinctly recall everyone’s presence, even if he couldn’t even remotely remember seeing them with his own eyes. The smokejumpers were the most obvious; they ran as a single, noisy pack, and although they observed the goings on in the bay silently, the signature rumble of high-power engines and the low gush of pressurized hydraulic systems marked their presence as well as anything else. Windlifter was a combination of deathly quiet accompanied by that heavy, niggling sensation of being watched. Maru liked to think sometimes that a person could feel the air being displaced when his huge frame ghosted through. His silence was wholly ruined by Dipper, who arrived not long after him. She had a penchant for fidgeting when she was nervous; usually she talked, _a lot_ , but when silence was prudent she couldn’t keep still. Maru _did_ recall actually seeing Cabbie, mostly because he noted that all the outside light from the bay doorway had disappeared. His one constant visitor was Dusty, perpetually lurking just outside. Sometimes he paced, sometimes he drifted a short ways away, but he was never far. 

That must have been a rough introduction for him. The entire resident crew—minus Pinecone—had been present for the loss of at least one of their teammates, either through willful retirement, medically enforced retirement, or when they didn’t make it off the line. Maru suspected it was the kid’s first time he’d seen the real effects of what fire could do to a person. Not just to have seen it, but to have watched it happen. Maru had seen that face on trainees before, a line-chilling combination of shock and realization and helplessness that drove the point home that this was no joke, and it did the job significantly better than any frosty lecture that Blade had in his power to give. Dusty’s engine had sat at a nervous high-idle for well over an hour now, and Maru was waiting for the inevitable crash that heralded the drop in mood that in some cadets lasted hours, others days, and nailed in the idea that this was not the career for others. Where on the line Dusty would fall remained to be seen.

Speaking of, he was currently sitting quietly just outside the threshold, settled heavily into his landing gear. He idly watched Maru reattach Blade’s rotors, but sharpened his attention when the mechanic began to unhook Blade’s systems from the pumps and reservoirs that currently flooded his lines with clean fluids. Dusty retrieved the tow hook for him, but his frame was ill-equipped to haul a helicopter more than twice his weight up a dirt hill, so Maru insisted on moving Blade himself. His vital signs were stable, and rebounding enough that Maru felt comfortable letting him sleep off his injuries in his own hangar. Dusty shadowed them the entire way, silently.

The kid lingered a while afterwards. The emotional crash had set in, now that the shock and adrenaline had finally run its course. He sat in front of the wall for far longer than Maru expected, attention moving eventually from Nick’s picture to the others scattered across the board. The legacy project of the previous chief, Blade made sure it retained its importance. The crew spoke of the wall with both morbid humor (“You’ve got enough stupid to put yourself on the wall. Do you lick power outlets, too?”) and somber reverence. Maru let him lurk, wasn’t bothering him any. Besides, the company might keep him from dwelling too hard on his friend of almost thirty years with deep burns and a whole slew of plating damage out cold in the dark of his hangar. Anything to keep himself from mulling over how close Blade came to joining all of those who flew the fire grounds before him. 

And since there wasn’t enough coffee or hooch in the universe able to make that wrenching, agitated feeling in Maru’s core go away, he decided to smother the sensation with work instead.

 

* * *

 

Blade had never felt anything like it. There was an extremely disparaging difference between feeling the hot updrafts of the flames, where the heat could dissipate into open air, and being trapped inside a confined space where it was essentially cradled in by the surrounding walls. It had blistered his paint in moments, and even once the entrance had caved, the smoldering wood radiated enough heat to have him coughing through the agonizing haze. It was dark enough to not be able to see, and the air was full of enough ash that his vents and intakes protested regardless of the pain racing up and down his left side. The only memories he had of not feeling anything were also the parts where he knew he was drifting in and out consciousness. He sucked it up when the air temperature because merely unbearable, as opposed to ‘trying-to-carbonize-him’ hot. His first attempt at removing the debris had left him gasping silently; the flank he was pushing against the old mine’s blockage was also where he was burnt, and his body protested vehemently against having such a severe injury jarred roughly against charred timbers and rock. He’d set his jaw hard and powered through it, seeing as he only had two options: either die here, or suffer through a few extra moments of an agony meant for one of the lowest circles in hell, but live. There was no real decision to make.

He’d taken a vicious hold of his lucidity during that painful trip to the meadow. He’d had his nap in the mineshaft, now he had to keep it together long enough to make it back to base. He would allow himself to collapse only once he’d seen Dusty back, received Windlifter’s report from the Coil Springs fire, and gotten Maru to make sure that he wasn’t going to kick the bucket just yet. After that, he’d allow himself to seek the solace of his hangar, and not a moment before.

Fate, however, had a radically different program of events for him. He knew something was wrong when his tail rotor became unresponsive. No matter how much power he put to it, the gearbox in his tail refused to respond, and it began to grind painfully. With nothing to stop the torque created by his main rotor, he spun wildly; it was incredibly difficult to make any sort of aircraft dizzy, but with the burning pain in his side, light headedness that felt a hell of a lot like extremely low fluid pressure, and some sort of rolling nausea in his tank, it was complete sensory overload. Then his altimeter went nuts, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop that ashy, incredibly uncomfortable looking meadow from coming up and giving him a crippling introduction. Still, all hard-wired self-preservation instincts demand that he try to avoid slamming his hull against the ground, and he did vigorously, which had exactly the results he expected. Namely nothing.

Which was probably why he ended up here. Wherever ‘here’ was. He hadn’t yet bothered to open his eyes, but even through the fog in his head and the tight, achy pain in his body, his other senses started to go to work, at various speeds. His hearing all but confirmed his location; it was far too quiet for him to be in the repair bay. Maru had a habit of muttering and/or singing to himself as he worked or cleaned, and the general open-air-ness of the building let in the sounds of the outside, often just the surrounding wilderness, frequently the voices of the other people on base. The almost muffled silence and lack of moving air concluded that he was inside a well-sealed building, and his tires were comfortably settled on the warm hardwood floors they were accustomed to.

Blade had the only hangar with hardwood floors. 

Discomfort in his frame aside, that boded well. Maru was an incredibly diligent mechanic, didn’t like releasing patients before he knew them to be stable, and had been known to threaten squirmy or overly macho charges with being welded to the wall in order to prevent them from attempting to leave before he was sure their taxed systems could handle it. One person had endeavored to call his bluff. The racous, shocked warbling he’d heard from the bay told more than any words did. Blade would have objected, except that the patient in question had managed to impale himself on a tree; a large, sharp branch had crammed right up through his engine compartment, and it was only by some miracle that the housing had only been scraped. Maru had kept him for observation, and Blade did not make a habit of questioning either his motives or his technique. So far, he hadn’t regretted it.

Brushing his freshly developing headache aside, Blade made a real effort to open his eyes. It was dark, which meant he’d been out for at least several hours, if not longer. It was quiet outside; usually there were the usual voices of the inhabitants as they went about one pastime or another, but he heard nothing. Similarly, his radio was silent, and flicking through their usual frequencies yielded absolutely nothing. Worrisome, to say the least, although considering his injuries, his entire com system might be down. He returned to their primary field frequency.

“Windlifter.” _Damn,_ his throat sounded scratchy.

“Go ahead, Blade.” There was an undeniable pause before he responded; Blade figured that was about as much of a surprised reaction he could hope to garner from his lieutenant.

“Give me a sit-rep.” 

“Myself, Dipper and Cabbie are currently northeast of Thunderbolt Bluffs. The main entry road suffered damage from the fire and blocked evac. The smokejumpers are currently on scene. Water supply appears to be down at base, making the retardant tanks unresponsive.” Another pause. “The SEAT is headed towards Augerin Canyon, following up on a report of two people trapped.” Blade had always marveled that Windlifter’s voice was constantly devoid of any inflection, despite apparently currently flying through an inferno.

“Main entry destroyed, people trapped. How big is this fire now?”

“Outside of our capabilities. At least fifty percent of the valley floor and walls are fully involved.”

“To put it conservatively.” There was no missing Cabbie’s dry sarcasm.

“So the SEAT’s headed… cripes.” They used the canyon as a training course for a reason. Light that sucker on fire and it was a death trap, especially if your engine currently lacked the ability to push out the force necessary to get you out of dodge quickly if things went farther south.

“You let him go?”

“Yes.” Not a hint of hesitation. 

“Copy that.” Blade surprised himself with how cool his voice sounded. Under normal circumstances, he might be mad. But these were far from normal circumstances, and he found himself unable to fault Windlifter for releasing Dusty to recon the trapped person’s call. He did wonder why he allowed him to go alone, uncertified as he was and without any backup, but Dusty’s superior speed might have something to do with it.

“Windlifter, bring all aircraft back to base; I’m going to rendezvous with the SEAT at Augerin Canyon.”

Another short pause. If Windlifter protested Blade’s desire to get airborne so soon after rousing from unconsciousness, he kept it to himself.

“Windlifter copies.”

Well, all that wasn’t quite was he had been expecting. He anticipated something still burning, especially since he’d let the Whitewall Rapids fire overtake himself and Dusty, but more than half the valley? That was extreme. It had been decades since the park had seen fire conditions like this, and never during Blade’s time stationed here. He swallowed past the achy pain in his sides and tightness in his frame before moving—more slowly than he would like—towards his door.

He was beaten to it. The hangar doors were thrown open as he approached, and he found himself staring Maru in the face. Windlifter might not endeavor to talk Blade down from any vigorous activity, but Blade knew if he wanted to get out into the air, he’d have to fight through his stubborn mechanic. A daunting task that he’d never admit; his cold glare never seemed to work on Maru, and the tug could match any clever verbal maneuver he could make. Usually, it was a bit refreshing. Right now, it was an absolute pain in the aft. He decided that he wouldn’t let Maru start this conversation. Better to not give him the headway.

“What’s the damage, doc?”

Maru pinned him with an incredulous look, and Blade could feel the beginning of a free-flowing tirade coming on. So much for impeding that.

“Seriously, ‘what’s the damage’? What’s _your_ damage? You just woke up, you have no idea what’s broke, and you want to back out to the fire line _tonight_?”

“That’s why I’m asking now.” He needed to cut this off; Maru could gripe for _hours_.

“I haven’t done any kind of practical flight test for your new rotors—“

“They feel fine.” They did.

“I need to reassess your vitals—“

“Crippling agony aside, I feel alright.” Truth, all of it. Slag, he did hurt, though.

“ ‘Crippling agony’… Chrysler, Blade, _that means something is wrong_!”

“I don’t have time for this, Maru!” this was taking longer than he’d hoped. Even without the upper reaches of his RPM, Dusty could still outpace everyone on base. If he had any chance to intercept him at the falls…

“I can’t leave him out there by himself.”

Maru gave an exasperated, sarcastic sigh.

“Yup, I dun goofed somewhere. You suddenly like the kid?”

“My feelings don’t matter. You know this. No one lone wolfs a fire. He’s not certified, he’s carrying engine damage, and he is in _way_ over his head.”

Maru’s frown stayed in place, but Blade could see him ingest and assess this, picking out the pertinent information and discarding the rest. Like any good mechanic did.

“He’s injured?”

“You didn’t find it odd that a successful, active young racer would toss it all out to slog through the grit here with us?” Blade had known there was something; fame didn’t let go so easily. He’d been keeping something real close, else the paparazzi would have followed him here. “His engine can’t fully throttle. In Augerin Canyon, that’s a death sentence.”

Maru was cracking, incrementally. Blade appreciated his dedication, and worry (even if Maru would never admit it; while far more personable than Blade himself, he was just about as tight with his emotions) and he knew who’s skill he had to thank for not decorating a smoldering crater in the woods. But he was about to bend and/or break all sorts of rules, many of his own, and he needed Maru to be willing to do the same.

He had to fly. And he would feel safer having his mechanic’s even reluctant approval.

“So, what’s the damage?”

Blade watched the tug falter, giving him one last glare for good measure before he finally broke. He let out a long, slow sigh of resignation.

“Most noticeably, you’ve got severe burns on your port side, as I’m sure you can tell. Your innards got cooked, so most of the rubber and other synthetics in that entire quadrant of your body is new. It’s gonna feel tight. You broke three rotors, so I replaced ‘em all. Relatively. Really wish I had the time to _stress test_ them, but _clearly_ I don’t.” He accompanied the emphasis with a combination of a glare and an eye roll. “Your hub made it through alright, despite everything. I’m sure you can feel the lack of a tank. It sheared clean off when it broke your fall, but that’s pretty minor, considering. Otherwise, you need a good cleaning, inside and out, I hafta smooth out the warping on your starboard side, and you are in severe need of a sanding and a repaint.”

“Anything else I should know about?” _Why can’t I fly?_

“Not off the top of my head.” _No reason that I can force onto you right now._

“Good.” He began to spool up his engines. Nothing felt strained or uncomfortable, and the four rotors in his hub were snug and well-balanced. Maru was giving him a quick once over, and Blade decided that despite his hurry, it would be prudent to apply power to his engines slowly. Maru listened all the while, attuned to odd sounds even Blade had difficulty discerning.

“I’ll be fine. I can work through a little pain.”

The tug’s face flickered back through a wide array of expressions, including several different grades of worry, before finally, completely giving up any hope of keeping the helicopter on the ground. 

“You almost bought the farm real good, buddy.”

Blade granted him a smirk.

“I could see the light. It called my name. But I turned the angels down because I can’t die until Cad causes me to suffer a massive stroke or engine failure by the end of the season.” Morbid, maybe, but Maru would see the humor in it.

“You heard that?” Maru grinned. A side conversation, weeks ago, where Maru swore to the smokejumpers that Blade would only be done in when Spinner finally did something to make his fluid pressure angrily spike to previously unforeseen levels, killing him instantly.

“I hear everything.”

“I should have bet more money, then.”

“Aren’t you still sittin’ pretty from robbing us all at poker years ago?” Blade’s wallet still hurt.

“Where do you think the money for all the duct tape came from?”

“How much of that is inside me right now?” Hm, a disconcerting thought, somewhat, although Blade had seen Maru do far more with far less.

“Psh, duct tape is like wood: good for buildings, bad for people.”

“Color me flattered, then. I’ve seen what you can do with wood and tape.” 

Blade touched off and stored his landing gear. This caused some minor discomfort, but it was easily bearable compared to what scorched through his flanks. He hovered briefly. The rotors felt good, despite Maru’s misgivings; he couldn’t feel any real noticeable change in performance.

“I’ll keep in touch.” 

Maru sent him a snort.

“And you better make it back under your own power, too. If I have to have Windy drag your feeble old carcass back here again…”

“I will publicly admit I was wrong, have no doubt.”

Maru scoffed at this.

“You’ll accept the next drink I offer you, that’s what.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You know I’m supposed to check your entire drive system when it’s rebuilt.”

Touché. He was already flying in the face of a good bed full of regulations, why not one more? He only really had to take one sip to fulfill that promise anyways.

“It’s a deal.”

“I’d have us spit on it, but we’re supposed to be grown men.”

Blade smiled, and turned to point his prow towards the canyon. All his systems checked out, and he swallowed his discomfort to open his throttle, gunning his engines.

“You’ll just have to take my word,” he called back. If Maru had a response, he didn’t hear it.

Blade didn’t even make it a tenth of a mile off base before he could see it. Conservative estimate, indeed. The fire was ripping through the tree canopies, forming fire whirls below and huge clouds of smoke above. The updrafts it created sent it’s own cinders flying, spotting smaller blazes well ahead of itself, growing swiftly. This was a campaign fire, no doubt. Without some precipitation (yeah right; in the middle of summer?), it could take them weeks to get this under control.

He pushed these thoughts aside as he entered the canyon proper. He’d manage that incident when he came to it.

First, he had to find his missing SEAT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhg, I tried for feels again. I don't think I really hit the mark. Whatevs.
> 
> Shh, I'm hunting twypos. Typos-oh, forget it.


	17. War Stories - Blade and Dusty

Let it never be said that Blade hadn't been warned.

Dusty had well and told him (albeit under duress and at a time where their energy could have been better spent ensuring that they didn't burn to death, but Blade would let it slide this once). When he'd gone vertical against the falls to draw water, Blade had still been of enough mind to at least halfway listen for any sounds that were unusual; sustained vertical flight required an immense amount of power, especially for a fixed wing. When Dusty had taken a slow lap post the collapse of the bridge, Blade had felt some relief. Of course, that's when the universe decided to remind both of them exactly who's mercy they lived under.

The massive plume of smoke from the kid's engine was the herald. Dusty hadn't been given the fortune of having his engine simply lose throttle power when his gearbox failed; his propellers stopped cold, and Blade could hear the sound of his transmission seizing entirely. This sent him into the woods on an upper ridge of the canyon at a speed that was beyond what Blade had in his power to intercept, and he had learned from earlier that day that Dusty was at the upper limit of what his hoist was capable of carrying aloft. He could at least feel grateful that the kid had been traveling at a speed great enough to let him glide into the forest, considering the alternative was a direct plummet down into Whitewall Rapids, where the shallow water would have done absolutely nothing to cushion Dusty from the massive boulders below.

The forest, however, posed its own series of challenges. Aside from creating a thick barrier of trees for Dusty to eventually strike on his way down, it made his subsequent extrication slow and difficult. Windlifter arrived within minutes, but it would be dawn by the time they were able to pull enough brush from around him to lift him out. Blade gave silent thanks that this was not a new task for Windlifter; all his former lumberjack experience lent itself well to the task, as did his ability to simply  _move some trees_  out of the way. Dusty had branches and vegetation intertwined around him, but had managed to avoid any puncture wounds from the trees he splintered on his way in. It would have gone much faster had Blade been able to deploy the smokejumpers, but they were still dispatched to the entry road, and by the time they could make it to the lodge (which contained one of the few places in the park large enough for Cabbie to land and retrieve them), Blade and Windlifter would be finished. Which is entirely what transpired when Blade heard Dynamite's voice crackle over the radio as they finished stringing Dusty into the sling; they were going make the hike to the lodge's airstrip, and would probably not make it back to base much sooner than Blade and Windlifter would.

Blade finished attaching the sling around Dusty's tail, and beat a hasty retreat out of the way; the clearing they had forcefully made was just barely wide enough for Windlifter's rotors, and Blade didn't want to be anywhere near the Skycrane's wash when it started tossing around all the plant shrapnel. He took careful note of where they'd left Dusty's severed pontoon and other bits; they'd head back for those once he'd been returned to base and Maru had a chance to stabilize him.

Blade let Windlifter set the pace; he was not fast, at least by aircraft standards, and even less so once he was carefully moving his injured charge. Even so, the Sikorsky placed them on a good balance between speed and caution, and it did not take long at all for them to return to base. Blade set himself down well out of the way; Windlifter and Maru were going to need all that space to get Dusty into the bay. Sure enough, Dynamite's crew had beaten them back, but not by much; Blade could see the heat shimmering off Cabbie's engines as he came up next to him.

The smokejumpers had formed a loose huddle, just outside the edge of the helipad Windlifter was endeavoring to place Dusty on. Not quite enough to crowd, but a genuine communal display of concern. Dipper looked as if all higher functions of her brain had ceased to operate. Not a reaction that boded well, but he'd address it at a later date.

Once Dusty was safely inside the mechanic's garage, Maru did what he did best. Blade neither bothered to follow the complex procedures that went into advanced emergency repairs, nor did he interfere. They had long ago struck a silent agreement: this was Blade's base, and it played by Blade's rules, but unless someone's life depended on it, no one was allowed to overrule Maru inside the boundaries of his repair bay. Blade did not like having people come and meddle with his ability to do his job, and he extended the same courtesy to other professionals when situations fell well outside his own scope of practice.

He silently acknowledged his own hypocrisy in his earlier standoff with Maru regarding his self-dismissal and rendering of flight worthiness. Discomfort aside (now an achy tightness instead of just a blind, nerve-burning pain), his injuries were holding up; Maru would summon him for the finer details once Dusty was stable.

The next five days were a large combination of events. Mutual aid from neighboring jurisdictions arrived quickly; once the chief of one county heard that Piston Peak was nursing a downed crewmate, one of his battalion chiefs assumed IC, leaving Blade remarkably free (which Maru insisted should be at least partially spent tending to his own recovery). Blade lent them Windlifter, Cabbie and the jump team, when needed, and they carried on with the usual gusto. Dipper refused to move from in front of the repair bay. Somewhat infuriating, having her actually tell him 'no'—in the most diplomatic method he'd heard from her—but considering that by day three it was still a bit touch and go, Blade decided he'd forgive her infraction this  _one time._  There was the unfortunate meeting with the TMST that actually became a boon more than a bust. Whispered rumors on the peripheral of his hearing hinted that there just might be a temporary shrine in Ryker's honor somewhere on base, embellishing with no lack of imagination his mighty, heroic overthrow of Cad the Tyrannical. Leave it to his jumpers to create the creepiest form of adulation ever, no matter how tongue in cheek it happened to be. The agent had prowled around the park for a couple extra days (hot damn, was this guy thorough), even venturing well off-road to both Blade's own and Dusty's respective crash sites. His role in serving Cad his due aside, Blade kept well out of his way. Ryker left as abruptly as he came in, leaving a large stack of folders with copies of his report for Blade to read. Which he didn't. He'd keep it for his records, definitely, but he had far more pressing issues to contend with.

Not the least of which was an emergency meeting with the new park super. For any regular at the Piston Peak, Ol' Jammer was as familiar as the lodge itself. Impossibly knowledgeable, endlessly patient and as kind as he was old. Probably not the best at the administrative responsibilities of running a national park, but that's what staff was for (Cad did get that part right, at least). Jammer had been adapting for seventy-two years; he'd handle this alright. Besides, with Cad's ousting, he'd given Pulaski full control of how to do his job. This worked in Jammer's favor; Pulaski's own duties were looking to be relatively light (never mind the fiery introduction to working at the lodge), and after watching him have vigorous conversations with Jammer, he seemed to be good, steady council. Blade still had that mental note to have a lengthy, leisurely sit-down with the big engine. So far, only the jumpers had any sort of extended contact with him, due largely to the collapse of the entry road gate. They gave him and his partner rather glowy reviews.

In between it all, Blade slept as often as he was able. Rest came easily, stress be damned; his injuries held sway over his body's subconscious functions, it seemed. Usually, the amount of work on his plate directly correlated to how difficult it was to close his eyes at night. Not so much, right now. That, or Maru was drugging his drinks in the evening. Not entirely unbelievable.

He idly considered this as he took slow sips off a can of low-grade in the main hangar. He was the only one present, but he could hear the sounds of everyone else from around the base. He was not alone for long, however, and heard Maru coming long before he saw him. The tug looked far more tired than Blade had seen him in a long time, and was clutching his coffee mug like his life depended on it. Come to think of it, how many hours had it been since he'd actually talked to Maru face to face? Yesterday? The day before? He set his chiefly persona aside for a brief moment, and let a few of his friendship feels come out.

"You look like hell."

Maru gave him a straight stare, but Blade could see a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

"Says the guy with a massive blister and crumple damage on his sides."

"Then at least I have an excuse to be so ugly."

"And here I was so sure you'd gotten used to the way I looked." Maru set his mug down on the table before moving towards a cupboard. Somehow, he produced a small can of high-grade from inside it (and Blade could do naught but wonder how it had gotten there without his notice; in his less realistic moments, it was stuff like this that made him wonder if Maru was a magician). He cracked it open, but eyed the coffee pot while doing so, as if pondering whether or not he should mix one with the other and drink the entirety. Thankfully, he decided against this, and joined Blade at the table.

"Me too, but you look raggedy-er than usual."

"You'd look raggedy too if you'd spent several days forks deep in the kid while Dipper bore holes in your back."

Blade gave a grunt to concede. Slow, meticulous work under constant scrutiny by a frenetic, worried audience would have made him snap days ago.

"How is he, by the way?"

"Out of the woods, for real this time." Maru took a long, slow sip. "We're fortunate that I was able to match parts, because hot  _damn,_  that kid's got pieces from all over. He might have been born an Air Tractor AT-502, but he's a hybrid in every sense of the word. Smaller, off-spec interior bits aside, and there are lots of them, he's got the wings of a Lockheed T-33. Yeah, I was rather surprised, too. When he rouses, I have plans to ask him under what circumstances he got modded like that. And they are mods; they've all been altered to fit."

It niggled gently against Blade's curiosity, too. Depending on one's make, model, and age, finding replacement parts that were true to spec could range from easy and affordable to difficult and expensive. Keeping one's heritage pure got easier if you were more affluent, or one's health insurance covered it. Sometimes, for rarer heritage lines, it was almost impossible.

And that was disregarding how mixed your lines were at birth. The smokejumpers came to mind; Dynamite aside, they were all certainly primarily Bobcats, but several displayed varying degrees of marked Caterpillar traits. Dipper, too, probably had some heavy Bombardier strains in her somewhere. Blade forcefully expelled any thoughts of Cad's clear and heavily distinguishable hybrid genealogy from his mind; his mood did not need any of him right now.

"And the rest?"

"You were not joking about damage to his gearbox.  _He_ wasn't joking. His gears all had cracks in them. No microscope or penetrant inspection needed; I could see them with my own eyes. I suspect one of them catastrophically failed, and once the others locked up on it and jammed, they broke as well."

That sounded totes painful. And awful to fix. There must be something else to it, though. Dusty was famous, and fame of the athlete nature frequently ran hand-in-hand with endorsements and  _money._ In the grand scheme of one's bits and bolts, a gearbox was not difficult to get ahold of, especially if the funds were readily available. If Dusty's was causing him such grief, yet he hadn't just had it replaced, then it ran deeper than just damage.

"What's your prognosis there?"

"Keeping with the rest of him, it's unique. I've seen a lot of Pratt & Whitney gearboxes, and his is custom. Which is just as well, since they stopped manufacturing that type a couple years ago."

"Ouch." Well, that sure explained that.

"No kidding. Good thing I've got lots of recent experience working on planes with hard to replace parts."

"Military-grade hard to replace parts."

As if on queue, Blade could hear Cabbie bark outside. This was followed by what sounded suspiciously similar to several hefty earthmovers fleeing into the woods.

"No joke. But Cabbie's always been a tough guy. His pistons give him more trouble than anything, but everything else on him runs as well as it did when he was eighteen, no matter what he says about it."

Blade gave a snort.

"I heard Drip say that Cabbie is some sort of pseudo-vampire. Claims that's why he so old and so brawny at the same time."

Maru cackled.

"Ha! Only from Drip. Was he drunk at the time?" Another sip. "But in all honesty, we should all be so lucky to age that gracefully."

"I better get on that, then. He's not that much older than me."

Maru cocked a brow at him.

"By who's timeline? You've got another twenty years before you're where he is. Cabbie was dropping paratroopers in Korea when you were learning to talk."

"Trust me, I'm well aware." And he was. Blade and Maru had had this conversation before, long ago, on the eve of Blade's ceremonial swearing in to his shiny new chief promotion. Back then, it had always felt a little awkward giving commands to someone both his senior and with enough hard life lessons accrued that he'd forgotten more than many other people ever learned. He'd gotten over it, mostly because it had never bothered Cabbie, and the big Fairchild made it abundantly clear that he would have turned down any offer of a promotion that came his way. He was old and tired, and had enough responsibility to his job and his jumpers. Utter slag, Blade was sure of it (Cabbie could fake 'old' and 'tired' like a champ), but he had let the topic go.

"You ought to stop chugging that stuff." 'Chugging' being currently open to interpretation, but there was no doubt that Maru had just consumed enough high-grade to give even one of the jumpers a pretty solid buzz. Which meant the tug might just barely be feeling anything. Blade wondered if he was losing his authoritative edge, because Maru hadn't batted an eye at the prospect of consuming his contraband in his presence. Then he remembered who he was talking about.

And the guy had saved two lives inside of half a week. Blade would let him have his victory celebration with just the barest of nagging.

Maru gave a sigh and a shrug.

"I suppose so. I still got a lot of cleanup to do, and some prep for tomorrow morning."

"You're going to give his gearbox a shot?"

"Nope."

Blade took a moment to blink slowly. Beg his pardon?

"…why?"

" 'Cause I'm done with that slag."

"Seriously?"

"I pulled it from him yesterday, and despite that being the largest pain in the aft that I have ever put my tools to, I'm feeling pretty solid on the results. It runs well, even at the highest RPMs I could push through it. I reinstalled it earlier this afternoon."

It was just after three. Blade highly suspected that Maru had wrapped up his work immediately before coming here.

"I'm genuinely astounded that you're done so soon."

"Again, by who's timeline? It's been four days, Blade. At this point, I'm pretty sure I've got more coffee inside me than oil or hydraulic fluid. The structural damage was the easy part, hybrid specs aside. I suspect he's still asleep so that his systems can assimilate the sheer amount of repaired parts I put back into him."

Blade gave a slow nod.

"So, the overall feeling is..?"

"He should make a full recovery."

Blade suppressed a grin. Maru didn't comment, but he surely noticed anyways. Which somehow reminded him of the other issue…

"And Dipper?"

"Still over there. Hasn't moved an inch. I've been watching her to make sure she doesn't pass out from a lack of substantive intake. Since she's not running her engines, and hence not consuming much fuel, I'm not too worried about any lasting damage or illness."

"Hm." Not healthy. Chatty and personal-space-challenged and sometimes with a clingy streak, but Dipper had never before descended to the point where she lost her grip on reality. To the best of his knowledge, Dusty did nothing to encourage it. Blade half blamed the kid's stardom; Dipper had always been the most hardcore of the serious racing fans (she could yell right along with the jump team when race-day came around, turning the main hangar into an honest tailgate party). According to Windlifter, she'd flipped her lid upon Dusty's arrival, and had only gotten more emotionally invested in whatever relationship they had as the week progressed. Blade had no reason to doubt him.

Blade roused from inside his own head to find Maru giving him the eye.

"How are you feeling?" Maru leaned back from the table slightly, as if it somehow helped him see Blade any better.

"I'm alright. Certainly better than the first couple days, and the remaining ache is tolerable."

"Now that Dusty's back squarely on the path to recovery, I can finish your post-op battery. Come in tomorrow morning, and we can get started."

Mmm, post-op repair battery. A slew of tests, mingled with a sanding, repaint, and deep cleaning that Blade both looked forward to and dreaded in equal measure.

"I'll be there as soon as I'm done talking to Incident Command."

"Good. Then we'll get to work on making you less ugly."

Blade smirked.

"Is there anything we can do to make  _you_ less ugly?"

Maru gave him a serious stare, then knocked back the last of his high-grade.

"Yes. Apply booze directly to mouth. Repeatedly."

* * *

"He's awake! I'm a genius."

Blade resisted the sharp turn as Maru shrieked from the repair bay, settling for a much more restrained, dignified roll towards the garage. Windlifter, having been following off his flank, altered course along with him. Dipper looked like she was about to explode. The drop team was not long in arriving, and Dusty's revival coincided with the tour the new super was having of the base. Lucky kid, he had a whole slew of people awaiting his awakening (although he did seem suitably rattled when Dipper slid creepily up next to him—as long as the smokejumpers refrained from any off-color crash or death jokes until the wounds had healed, Blade figured Dusty would be fine). That was always nice about working on base; if you went down for any reason, even your own stupidity, there was always a small group of people eager to see you back up and running. They might make fun of you after you'd been given a clean bill of health, but they were still happy to see you well.

Dusty had roused swiftly out of grogginess once Maru informed him that his drive system was once again fully operational. While not exactly quiet, it was a more conservative sort of elation than the rough nudges and wild howling Blade was used to.

Once Jammer and his small entourage took their leave, Blade shooed the jumpers on their way as Maru prepped Dusty for a diagnostic. Dipper lingered long enough for the tug to insist that she go get something to eat, and she resisted until he gave her a look that heavily implied some sort of previous agreement for her to do just that. Her gaze slid from Maru to Blade, and he gave her a neutral, pointed stare for good measure. She scooted along in short order.

Dusty settled heavily into his suspension, face a combination of exhaustion and exultation, and he paid only half a mind to Maru as he prodded into him here and there, with a "how does this feel?" or a "start this up for me and tell me what hurts." Considering how hard he'd finally broken out in the forest during their run-in with the head of the fire, Blade suspected his relief was all consuming. As it was, he could practically taste it in the air.

This kid  _lived_  to race, as deeply and enthusiastically as Blade had thrown himself right down Hollywood's throat. To be able to make a return to the courses probably felt better than any trophy win. Blade understood the feeling.

He was not the only one to notice, either.

"If you keep cheesin' like that, your face is going to freeze that way." Maru was fiddling carefully under on of Dusty's wing flaps.

"I know. It does kind of hurt. But I just…you have no idea how good it feels."

"You're showing us pretty well." Maru tweaked something in an aileron that made Dusty stifle a wince. He muttered an apology. "Ya know, next time you have a condition that could possibly result in your own early demise, I recommend you talk to the mechanic on duty about it, first."

"Yeah. It was just… I guess embarrassing, more than anything."

"No, embarrassing is taking the rough diamonds of our base to a formal dinner as a group. Or what happened at that one party that we threw at the end of the season. Or watching a certain serious somebody get his pride butchered by an orphaned baby animal. Yeah, look at Blade's face, he remembers, hehehe." Maru looked back at Dusty, expression drifting a bit back towards serious. "Injury, unless cause by some catastrophic lack of good sense, is not all that embarrassing."

"I'll keep that in mind, next time."

Dusty's eyes wandered back towards Blade, and the Agusta watched as his face slipped noticeably from its previous relaxation. His eyes were pinned to Blade's port flank, as if trying to will his eyes to see the burn that was no longer there. Or perhaps, to will it to go away. He understood this too; once you saw someone crippled from a wound, of any variety of kinds, it was hard to  _not_  see it every time you looked at them.

"I'm alright. Nothing that wasn't repairable." Blade ignored Maru's snort from somewhere by Dusty's tail. Yes, yes, and he knew who to thank, and that his savior had a much different assessment of his injuries than he did.

"It looked so awful and painful. Chrysler, Blade, you could have died."

"But I didn't." It sure felt like he could have, too, but he'd keep that to himself.

"And even after I had been so  _stupid…_ "

"Yes, you were. But you learned from it, huh? Then get in line behind the rest of us, because we've all done painful, dangerous kinds of stupid at one point or another."

Behind Dusty, Maru just grunted and nodded as he worked.

"Y-you didn't have to do that for me."

"Yes I did. Welcome to fire, Champ."

 _Because that's what we do here. And now, that's what you will do, too._ Although considering the situation surrounding Dusty's impromptu trip from the sky into the woods, he was already paying it forwards.

Maru began to wrap up his diagnostic, and prepare for the next in the series of Dusty's post-op procedures. The fun part, he called it, although Blade's skin had not agreed. The tug was gentle with a sander, but so was a dentist with a drill. He was also post injury, so that may have been part of it, too.

"Alright, Crophopper, lets finish this off. You have a date with a sander before your new paint goes on." Maru brandished said device almost menacingly in his tines. "Back to orange and white, yeah?"

"Yeah, I look best in those." Dusty's eyes caught something on his prow. "Oh! And can you put my Jolly Wrenches brand back on the front, too?"

"Can do." The tug leveled a look at him. "Its gonna take a while to get your new paint on, and while we're here you're going to tell my why you're sporting both the wings of a T-Bird and the piston and crosswrenches."

"Both of those are long stories."

"Trust me, we've got the time."

Dusty rolled his tongue in his mouth a bit, as if deciding where to start. Blade was going to spare him for a short while, but only by asking a couple questions of his own.

"What brought you to fire when you learned of your gearbox damage?" Why here, especially, when this career put strain on the exact piece of hardware that could not take a beating? There were many other routes he could have taken in his racing retirement, although Blade did not blame him for not returning to agriculture. He could feel his own brain melting from boredom just thinking about it.

"Another long story, filled with more embarrassment on my part, but the short version is that I was at least partially responsible for getting Propwash Junction's airstrip shut down by the TMST. I promised Mayday I'd help him get our certificate of operation back. The livelihoods of everyone out there depend on that runway." He gave Blade the most level look he'd seen from him in a long time. "I caused the problem, so it was my job to fix it. Part of the issue is that we don't have two firefighters. Only Mayday. I offered to be the second, and he sent me to you." Dusty gave a shrug. "You know the rest."

Blade gave a quiet 'hn' and a nod. An acceptable reason, although part of his story poked sharply at his memory. The TMST pulled their CoO? A recent conversation stirred loose from the others.

_"I'm familiar with Crophopper's mechanic."_

Oh hell on earth, no way.

"Just to satisfy my own curiosity, can you describe the TMST agent they sent? Or did you even get to see him?"

"Trust me, we all saw him.  _Huge_ guy, I didn't know they had fire engines that big anywhere. Scary face. Kinda like your—well, I mean…never mind. But there wasn't an ounce of mercy in him. About as rigid as a bridge strut, and twice as hard and cold. I know it was his job, but he could stand to be a bit gentler." Dusty paused briefly. "But are you looking for an unbiased, physical description? Uh, about forty feet long, emergency-green color, three water turrets, two rear axels. He introduced himself, I think, but I don't remember what his name was."

Really, with a vague description like that it could still be anybody, but Blade's instincts were thrashing about something fierce. Maru had the same idea, for he was cackling to himself as he finished assembling his sander. His eyes met Blade's, and his smirk got wider.

Dusty looked uncomfortable.

"Um, why? Do you know him?"

"I sure hope not, but just in case we do, better switch his paint up a bit, Maru."

"Wait, what?"

"Sure. What did you have in mind?" Maru made a face. "Not emergency-green. That hard aft can pull it off, but it would look just foul on this kid."

"Naw, but if Champ's going to stand before him as an airstrip firefighter, more points for him for looking the part." Blade gave Dusty a brief once-over. "Lets go with red and black, on white."

Maru gave Dusty his own brief appraisal before smiling. He shot Blade a knowing look.

"Gotcha."

"Do I get a say in this?" Dusty waggled his wings to get their attention, and Blade granted him a smirk.

"Do you want a say in this?"

He seemed to consider it for a moment, looking back at Blade's flank, contemplating. There were benefits to the new livery. Change of style aside, it was always appropriate for any emergency vehicle to be suitably identifiable as such somewhere on their person, if only with colors rather than words. Fire engine red would definitely help with that, if Dusty had no desire to brandish any labeling.

"No, that's alright. Mayday and I will match, then. He'll think it's cool."

"He thought it was pretty cool when I went red, too." Dusty quirked a brow, and Blade obliged him. "I used to sport a lot of colors, but none of them ever included red. Mayday was one of my old trainers, years ago. I took this paintjob on the day of my graduation, after him. Old ruster was pretty tickled."

Blade watched Dusty's eyes widen; the meaning was not lost on him, it seemed. His gaze jogged left, where Maru was setting several large cans of paint next to his sprayer. So Blade's colors were Mayday's colors. And now also Dusty's colors. Blade watched his face as his expression evolved quickly between surprise, excitement, appreciation, and pride. The last one was Blade's personal favorite; if Mayday had been half as gratified as Blade felt right now, then yes, he'd been tickled.

Dusty was practically wiggling on his suspension. Repaired gearbox, and the inheritor of both the livery and spirit of a proud mentor-student line of firefighters? One's day didn't get much better.

"Thanks, Blade."

Blade had been smiling for ten straight minutes already, and it didn't seem like he was destined to stop any time soon.

"You've earned it."

He was just glad the kid hadn't started crying. This was a no crying zone.

It made Blade uncomfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because vacation and then work happened. And I apologize for that.
> 
> Blech, more attempted feels, because people asked for it. They wanted Dusty, in particular (you know who you all are). I was pretty much avoiding him entirely, because he gets two entire movies of character development to himself (and, may haps in the future, three). If you enjoyed the nonsense written here, you can thank all the lovely readers who politely poked me until I relented.
> 
> Also, Blade's been getting himself a lot of time in here. Poor guy will get a bit of a break soon.
> 
> Blah blah typos blah. Blah blah blah, fix 'em later blah.


	18. War Stories - Maru

It was turning into one of those nights when Maru was sure he should have stopped several drinks ago. The room swam and blurred at all sorts of inopportune times, and he was past being able to look at a clock and glean anything from it without squinting really, stupidly hard. And then the shadows in the room began to stalk back towards him, and he took another sip to keep them at bay. This was the really fierce stuff; the kind of drink you didn't taste so much as feel. Or degrease engines with. Either way.

He hadn't always been this bad, and he was wondering if it was old age. He usually drank for the taste, like most well-adjusted adults, and even took the hard stuff in moderation; it wasn't as much fun to laugh at the incoherent drunk dancing on a table if the incoherent drunk was  _you_. Even when he was a punk inner city kid out of the roughest parts of Chicago, he was into more rugged pastimes than stealing booze from the corner store. He'd spent the majority of his fire career enjoying a relatively dry lifestyle, even if any celebration on base included several cans of mid-grade.

And then he became Piston Peak's chief mechanic, and Maru learned that he was not as emotionally grounded as he thought. After they lost Marvin ( _after_ you _lost Marvin to your ineptitude_ , a particularly vindictive ghost whispered, and Maru chased it off with another mind-numbing swig of his high-grade), he'd discovered that he couldn't dwell on anything painful if he was far too hammered to dwell on much of anything at all. He remembered shooting looks behind him for the first few sips, afraid Charlie would somehow come out of retirement just to throw a wrench at him.

He grimaced. His old mentor dragged up all sorts of mixed feelings. Right now, it dredged through gallons of all sorts of embarrassment. He could imagine the tirade. Years later, and Maru could still hear his voice ringing inside his head.

Charlie had been his salvation. A raggedy kid with no interest in school and some highly questionable sorts of associations, Maru had seen all of the darkest ends of society by the time he was fifteen. By the time he was seventeen, he was well on his way to getting himself in some very adult kinds of trouble. One particular day had seen him forced into school through a truancy officer, which he resisted as much was reasonable (the officer they sent wasn't huge, but she sure didn't take any of his slag). He cut most of his classes until a hall monitor had towed him into his biology class. Which, against his will, he actually enjoyed. The teacher was the most rugged sort of forklift he'd ever seen, with broad, crooked tines and an even broader grin. He was loud, didn't beat around the bush, and had all sorts of off-color biology-related jokes that any other teacher might balk at telling to a room full of gossipy students. He also insisted they call him 'Charlie.' "Mr. McCopper is my father, and I ain't quite that old and feeble yet." Maru liked him. He still played hooky more often than not, but he'd drag himself to class at one and slink away at two, just for biology. Kinda. Mostly because Charlie made it fun.

So when Charlie pulled him aside one afternoon after class in regards to several marks and scuffs along Maru's sides, Maru actually told him (damn, that had been a fun party, but that guy had had his aft-beating coming). When Charlie had given him an earful about his lifestyle choices, Maru had listened with half an ear, which was far more consideration than he had ever given anyone else. And when Charlie told him, on the last day of class before summer, that he had to head out for his other job, Maru stayed after class to ask about it. Most of it wasn't a secret; Charlie spent his summers way out in the middle of nowhere, kickin' it with a bunch of people in the woods. Firefighters, supposedly, though Maru always wondered how many buildings could catch fire if there weren't any buildings to burn in the first place. Not structure fires, Charlie smirked. Forest fires. The big stuff. All of those stories he'd told them over the semester were truth; he really had seen someone rip an entire rotor hub clean off.

"Did he die?"

"She, and no she didn't."

"You fixed it?"

"Damn straight."

"How the hell did you do that? Did you repair it out in the woods? Was the fire still there?"

Charlie had grinned, and handed Maru an envelope with a business card and a ticket.

"Why don't you come find out?"

Maru had sent him a look that was probably the most suspicious thing to ever grace anyone's face, ever.

"I was not born yesterday, kid," And Charlie had used that tone of voice that both made Maru feel like he wanted to listen and hit the older forklift in the face. It would take him some years before he realized that he was feeling overly defensive. "The only time I ever see you, that anyone on campus sees you, aside from your punk-aft 'friends,' is when you're in my class. Other than that, who knows what street you're skulking around on." Maru had growled, but found himself entirely unable to look Charlie in the face. "How old are you now, eighteen? Your child's ticket admission to the justice system has expired. You make one mistake now, and the fuzz can swoop in to wreck your life. And it will be  _your own damned fault_." Charlie had taken a moment to shift his weight, rolling his tongue around in his mouth as if he was sifting through the more unsavory words for something a bit more reserved. "If this subject is so interesting to you, run with it. You're behind. Compulsory education didn't work for you, but that's an uphill battle you'll have to climb when you get there. And if you want it bad enough, you  _will_  climb it." He pushed past Maru, but paused at the door to the classroom.

"My job is fun. Real fun. And who knows? Maybe someone will break a wing this year."

Maru had no idea what to think. On one fork, like hell he was going anywhere with a teacher, fun guy or no. Biological mechanics was entertaining for a couple hours a week, not twenty-four seven. On the other fork… Maru had looked at the ticket for a good, long time. He'd never been out of the area in his life. He hadn't ever gone anywhere near the airport, nothing fun happened over there.

He tossed the envelope and the business card, but kept the ticket. He pushed it to the back of his mind for a couple days, until he decided to slink home for the first time in several days. He regretted it immediately, and promptly left again. He spat as he wandered aimlessly, but he wasn't really surprised; his parents had been volatile for years, why should they stop now? He considered hitting up a friend to crash with, when something niggled at him inside a compartment. That ticket had gotten a bit wrinkly, but it still looked pretty good. Maybe.

He spent the entire night at the airport.

The security guards had given him weird looks as he wandered around until late in the evening, but no one bothered him. He was surprised how busy the place stayed, even late at night. There were other people there into the early morning, but once it passed midnight it was easy to keep to himself. He did find it hard to fall asleep there out in the open; he didn't have anything somebody would want to take, but they might still try.

He didn't realize he'd dozed off at all until someone nudged his flank, hard.

Charlie was grinning as he roused.

"And here I almost thought you wouldn't show. Glad my gut feelings weren't misplaced." He nodded towards the end of the terminal, and Maru fell in line beside him. "And thanks, too. You just made me some money."

"What? How?"

"My boss was skeptical if you'd even take my offer. Now he owes me twenty bucks."

The flight was an adventure in and of itself. Maru hadn't ever seen big aircraft up close; these suckers were huge. He idly wondered what a plane bar fight would look like. Charlie let him take the space next to the window, and Maru had his face glued to the glass for the entire trip. He'd clenched up during takeoff, and apparently braced for the landing vigorously enough to make Charlie chuckle, but otherwise the trip was smoother than he'd expected. He didn't really know what to expect, but certainly something. Like rolls and stuff.

From the next airport they hopped a much smaller plane out to the airstrip of an old, wooden building built entirely out of the largest logs Maru could imagine. The Fusel Lodge, Charlie called it. Maru wasn't sure if he wanted to explore it, or if it would come down around him if he so much as breathed in its direction.

And then they'd hiked. Maru would call it such, because it was a lengthy trip on their own up the winding road. A mile in, and Maru was starting to regret ever wanting to be here. He'd seen more large bugs in the last few minutes than he'd seen in all the previous portions of his life.

The base itself, when they finally got there, was a series of variably sized hangars situated around an airstrip and taxiway. There were a variety of people milling around the one massive building that took up most of one side of the tarmac, and Charlie gave a loud whistle on his approach. A big helicopter, white and red with  _two_ rotor hubs, turned to shoot him a grin.

"And then there's  _this_  guy," the chopper snorted by way of a greeting.

"GT, you old slagger. Limped out here for another go, eh?" Charlie was smiling as hard as Maru had ever seen him.

"I'm sorry, did you call me old? Does that mean that you've got a couple tires in the grave already?"

"Psh, I'll live to be a hundred before I croak."

"A hundred more days, more like."

"As long as you don't keelhaul your heavy aft over me as you lumber about."

The big chopper gave Charlie a vicious smirk, before nodding in Maru's direction.

"This your kid?"

"For now, yeah. Maru, this is Chief Gustav T. Vortex, my boss, and the guy who'd better pay up what he owes."

The big helicopter winced.

"Oh hell. I was hoping you were senile enough to forget."

"I'll forget when I'm dead."

"So a hundred more days, yeah?"

"How about you go jump off a cliff?"

"Age before beauty. I'll follow you down."

Maru sat quietly. They weren't his friends, and he didn't really know what to say to strangers. Even so, something about it was causing odd, warm feelings in his core. He hadn't ever heard of anyone who liked his boss enough that he could tell him to leap to his death, and his boss' reaction was to laugh and invite him to join him. Charlie moved to greet the other people gathering around, and he sat right where he was. There was a big orange and grey plane with four turboprop engines; a lightweight, blue and white helicopter (the only female he could see, she must be the one who somehow lost her whole rotor system); another big dual-rotor, but bright yellow; one very large plane, black and grey, and with a strange twin-tail assembly; and a small earthmover type, yellow and black, who was currently giving Charlie a great deal of grief.

GT snorted, before giving Maru his full attention. He'd squirmed uncomfortably under his intense appraisal.

"So Chuck really brought you out here to learn, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then welcome to the fire service, kid. And that will be a 'yes, sir.' Charlie will be your supervisor while you're out here. He knows how we work, so if I were you, I'd pay all kinds of special attention to whatever he tells you."

"Yes… sir." Warm feelings gone, and replaced immediately by something bitter that he wouldn't be able to identify properly until he and Charlie had a sit down a few weeks later, after Maru'd given some lip to GT (Chief Vortex; Charlie had cuffed him upside the head the first time he'd dared the nickname). He was jealous; he wanted to be able to laugh and joke and use people's nicknames, too. Charlie had snorted, but smiled.

"We don't give those to everyone. You earn the right to relax around here, and you do that by busting your aft. Out here, we work damned hard. And then we get to relax aggressively and have some fun."

Maru was not used to hard work. The first couple months were incredibly rough. Up early, late to bed, and Charlie was an absolute taskmaster. Never mind Chief Vortex, who seemed to be out to give Maru more agitation than was strictly necessary. Charlie assured him that that was a good thing. If the residents didn't give him a little hell, it meant they didn't believe he could handle it. All he had to do was rise to the challenge without complaint.

Easier said than done.

By his fourth month, though, Maru found things to enjoy. It had been years since he'd been able to sleep as well as he did out here. At first he thought it was the quiet of the woods, until he went out by himself one evening and discovered that the forest was  _noisy_. There were birds and bugs and the first time he ever got to see a real live deere, he heard it bellow. Oddly enough, he felt safe out here; no one was coming for him, he didn't owe anyone anything, and nobody here had a grudge bad enough to come beat him up (he sure hoped, at least; aside from the guy who minded Piston Peak Air Attack's tower, Maru was by far the smallest one here).

When the season ended, Maru and Charlie said their goodbyes and rolled slowly back down the hill towards the lodge. This time, they were accompanied by Chief Vortex, which meant that for most of the trip, Maru travelled in silence while they verbally sparred with each other. It did not go entirely unnoticed.

Charlie shot a look behind him.

"You're awful quiet back there, Maru."

Maru just shrugged.

"Not much to say, really."

"Sad to be leaving?"

Maru frowned. This place was full of giant bugs, wild animals, and he'd spent enough time scrubbing and cleaning things that if he looked at a rag in the next month, he might set it on fire out of spite. He was looking forward to sleeping in, and not having to address people by rank. But other than that…

"Yeah, I suppose." They were nice people, really. The big yellow Chinook had warmed up to him faster than the rest, and Marvin (he had scoffed when Maru called him Firefighter Swiftdraft, and they'd been comfortably on a first-name-basis when neither Charlie nor Vortex were around) had gladly given Maru the secret ins and outs of fire culture during Maru's precious downtime. Theodore, the big P-3 and former Navy, and initially just as strict with him as Vortex, but he took dinner seriously, and had herded Maru to the main hangar when he had been attempting to work in the repair bay by himself. He also believed in the power of dessert, and had aggressively defended Maru's share of pie from hungry coworkers. Smoker and all his jumpers where an insane lot, but they were nice to him. Cabbie was cool. He mostly kept to himself, but he'd talk to Maru in the morning. He was relatively new to the base; it was his second year, having just transferred permanently from another fire attack base, and his second career. Maru had been eyeing the USAF paint on his sides for a while, but had never quite found the courage to ask the big plane about it.

"Such enthusiasm." Charlie snorted.

"I got it from you." At least with him, Maru felt comfortable with a little friendly bickering.

Charlie barked a laugh. Next to them, Vortex regarded both forklifts and rolled his eyes.

"Just what I need, a second Charlie."

"You know you love me, GT."

"Yup, like I love an STD. And you're just as hard to get rid of."

"Bah!"

Vortex smirked before looking over Maru again.

They approached the lodge airstrip, and Maru watched Charlie look around for their ride out. He sat quietly on the worn cobblestones, watching people drive to and fro as they went about their way. Vortex towered next to him, providing the only cool shade in quite a few square yards.

"So, same time next year, kid?"

Maru had to blink slowly for a moment before he found something not stupid to say.

"What?" Kinda. It was still pretty stupid.

"You gonna come back next year?" Vortex turned enough to look at him squarely.

"Do… do you want me to?"

"It don't matter much unless  _you_ want to."

"Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. I'll come back next year."

"I'm not gonna lie, when Charlie told about his little project, I half expected you to quit after a month with us. When you didn't, I pushed a little harder. You didn't break though. Not much anyways." Vortex smiled, and then sneered hard as Charlie slowly rolled his way back. "Which is great, because I expect this guy to die any day now."

"What are you two conspiring about over here?"

"I'm replacing you, Chuck. With your younger, better-looking apprentice. At least I know he won't fall apart at a moments notice."

"You traitor."

Maru didn't remember whatever else they'd said. He'd just smiled hard enough to make his face hurt for the next forty-five minutes. They wanted him back.  _Chief Vortex_  wanted him back. The warm fuzzies from six months ago? They had returned, and they were mighty ferocious.

Maru sighed softly, and wallowed in the feeling. It was why he was still here, after almost thirty years. The camaraderie, the teamwork focus, they soothed all sorts of old, lonely hurts he'd had growing up. And they'd made him a better person. If you'd asked anyone who'd interacted with him when he was still an alley-stalking street punk, they'd never tell you he'd grow up to amount to anything good. And hell if he'd ever be nice or considerate. But being constantly saturated with the selflessness of a crew of people who flew into the inferno on the account of all the people they'd never even met had rubbed off on him, and he'd risen to the occasion. He liked to thank them every so often, with cards if not phone calls, even those who weren't still around to hear it.

And suddenly, the warm fuzzies fell prey to the jaws of the shadows in his repair bay. Oh yeah. He was rather intoxicated, and it was all to convince these dark, foul ephemeral things to leave him in peace. No such luck.

The woods outside seemed more subdued. Maru had always liked to keep his shop as open as possible, to let the outside in. It still had the same calming effect on him as it had decades ago. The shadows, though, were relentless in their pursuit of his remaining sanity.

Across the tarmac, Maru could still see a few lights here and there. Other than those of the taxiway and various light posts, there was still a lamp on inside Blade's hangar. Not entirely unusual; he tended to work as late as Maru did (at least when Maru was diligently working, not the brain-scrambling nonsense he was engaged in right now). Maru watched for a few minutes, and wondered if he was presuming too much to intrude this late at night. And then something that felt an awful lot like Theodore scraped along his back, and he punched the mic on his radio.

He held the connection open for a few moments, not quite sure where to start. He didn't even have to.

"You're still up." Blade's voice was strong and even, but quiet. Even when he was tired, he didn't ever sound like it. Lucky bastard.

"Yeah."

"You sound a bit strange."

"I'm three sheets into the wind right now, and I'm not quite sure which way is up."

Blade growled, and Maru could practically see him scowl. Friendly Intervention Face Number One, he called it.

"You did that to yourself, don't ask me to dig you out of it."

"Trust me, I'm aware." He was. Blade did not take well to Maru's preferred method of handling his issues. Even so, he was more merciful than many gave him credit.

Silence on the other end of the line, but Blade still kept the connection open. It stayed that way for several long minutes before Blade continued.

"Feels like Halloween out there tonight, huh?"

"On the account of all the ghosts flying around? Don't you know it."

Oh yeah. They'd done this song and dance before. It didn't take much to tell the helicopter what was really up.

"You know being inebriated won't really help." Blade's tone softened a bit, and even through mind fog and radio static, Maru could hear him smile. "Lucas always enjoyed a stiff drink now and then. Watching you knock them back is just going to make him jealous and angry, and then we'll need an exorcist to get rid of him."

Egads, didn't that sound hellish. Luke could rage hard enough to make fire look like a cold shower.

"Didn't he though? Remember when GT put him on latrine duty for half the season?"

"Oh yes. When was that, '97? GT's last year before he retired, and he brought the hammer down so hard Lucas was feeling it years later."

"Haha, I felt so bad for him."

"Me too, especially remembering what GT did to  _us._ "

"That was your fault, too."

"Oh, no. That was all you, being a rude little aft who couldn't mind his own damned business."

"But you  _attacked me_."

"And you attacked back."

"Oh yeah, cuz that's fair; the four ton helo verses the half ton forklift. Very sporting."

"Liar, you weigh more than that. You were scrappy, though. I felt those hits."

"Hell yeah you felt them, I wanted to live!"

"I wouldn't have killed you, and you know it."

"Not then I didn't, you were the new helitanker with palpable depression and crazy-eyes."

"No, crazy-eyes is what GT had when he broke us up."

"Truth. Now I know where you get your Super Chief Laser Pupil Attack from. Although he was the fire to your ice."

"Since when am I the icy one?"

"Since always, Blade. Since always."

There was a pause as they caught their breath. Maru realized he was grinning hard into the darkness outside, and he didn't feel them any more. The claws. The lively shadows in his hanger had softened their sharp edges to something about as threatening as a wool shammy. They were still there, but for the moment, they seemed content to listen to Blade and Maru bark at each other. Same lines, different players.

"We've become them, you know." Maru found both humor and solace in it.

"Hm?"

"Charlie and GT. We've aged to the point where we get our kicks by making fun of each other."

Blade groaned.

"Chrysler, we have. Do you feel any inclination to die of old age some time this season?"

"Not in the next hundred days, nope. But let me know if your incontinence starts to set in."

"It probably won't start until after you stop being able to feed yourself."

"I'm determined to die  _while_  feeding myself. If I don't leave this world choking on pie, then I've missed out."

"Don't say that aloud. You'll make Theo outrageously envious, and then I really will have to call an exorcist."

"Those exorcists better come waving candy, or he won't be interested."

Maru could hear Blade laugh from the other end. Something was slightly amiss, and Maru looked around to see his can of high-grade on the other side of the bay, right where he'd left it a while ago. Huh. He felt no need to go retrieve it for the time being. Instead he sighed, smirked, and decided to give Blade another chance at making him forget about personal demons.

"Remember when Smoker got himself stuck inside a log?"

"Ha! That was good. Marvin brought him back, fallen tree and all. I thought Tracey was going to choke she was laughing so hard."

"Me too. It was a hoot though, watching one of his treads flail about helplessly."

"And then he started screaming when you were sawing him out."

"That's because he was a giant baby."

"That's because he thought you were gonna slip and slice him open."

"I would not have. Mine are the steadiest tines in the business."

"My tail boom begs to differ."

"That was your own fault for squirming so much. And for getting a fence wrapped around it in the first place."

"It was not."

"It so was."

"It was  _not_!"

"What are you, five? Look where you've taken this conversation."

"Still better than being  _old._ "

"So now we're back here again? Bring it, Blade. Trust me, tonight I can handle whatever you've got."

"Please. I'll take your drunk aft any day of the week. If I win, you owe me twenty bucks."

"Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm sure Maru's got some form of PTSD after seeing some of the injuries he's seen. Turns out, he's not any better than Blade at handling it.
> 
> Some of you peeps and your angst have rubbed off on me. Didn't I promise more silliness last time? Cripes. It's coming, I swear.
> 
> Words!
> 
> Boeing 234 Chinook: A massive tandem rotor helicopter, with an impressive payload capacity of 25,000 pounds. There are several different models of these; I'm sure everyone's seen at least one of them before. My head canon says that the yellow tandem on the Wall was one of these, a heavy-lifter, while Blade's predecessor was Boeing-Vertol 107, which had less than half that carrying capacity, but was faster.
> 
> I have not had a chance to go over this yet, as it is one am and I cannot see straight. Please forgive my typos until I can fix 'em.


	19. War Stories - Drip and the Deere III

This was one of those great days that kept Drip out here every summer.

The fire had been a rippin' thing when they'd arrived; about fifty-ish acres of a blaze that easily crowned all the trees. The wind pushed it hard to the southeast, but that had eventually buffered the flames up against the sheer stone of the valley walls, and it had been a surround and drown firefight ever since. Once contained, the tankers had dumped enough water and retardant on it to just about smother it completely. Once the sun had started going down, Dynamite made the decision to stay out with it for overnight mop up, and Blade pulled everyone else back to base. Which left just the smokejumpers alone with their embers for the night (cooking coals, Pinecone called them, and they had endeavored to test this theory to remarkably fantastic results; as such, marshmallows were a standard supply in any of their equipment bags now).

It was going to be an easy job. With the only active flames of any decent size pinned firmly up against the stone cliffs, they only had to maintain the perimeter as they went about dispersing the remaining embers they found. With both the brush cuts and the thick ring of retardant around the burn area, it was as much fun as anything. They kept eyes on each other, but they were otherwise able to spread out and hack apart coals as leisurely or enthusiastically as they desired. And every so often, someone would bust out a marshmallow.

The easy mop up also meant longer sleeping shifts. Dynamite gladly gave them four hours each, in two shifts. Drip and Avalanche would take first break (and you knew you loved your job when  _losing_ the coin toss meant you got your breaks first), and she tapped them both out at somewhere around nine. They took the roll towards their safety clearing slowly; not out of anything resembling exhaustion, but it had been a kick-back sort of day. No reason to ruin it. Avalanche did take a dirt clod to the lights when he made a smart comment towards Blackout—something something alone with the girls and something else—but that was pretty apropos, and all in good fun. If anyone had taken any real offense, it would have been a rock. Or a burning tree.

Drip killed his engine once he got to the clearing, and dug out his marshmallows. They were relatively far from the black, but that was alright; uncooked marshmallows were still pretty damned good. Avalanche joined him in short order, still grinning through the soil that crumbled down off his floodlights.

The woods were rather quiet, aside from the occasional crack from the burn. Pretty normal; most animals, bugs and the like got out of dodge quick when things started to smoke. Even so, he liked the woods at night. If you listened hard enough, you could always hear something calling through the trees. Which, if you were privy to Maru's words of wisdom, were nature's versions of either "get off my lawn," or some lonely bachelor calling the party line.

From their space, they could see clear to the end of the meadow. There was usually a creek running through it, but at this point of the season it had dried to a rocky ditch. Even so, the grass was able to find what little water was in the soil, and it grew thicker here than almost anywhere else in the park.

Which was probably what drew their visitors.

Drip heard them before he saw them, the snorting and soft calls within the group that heralded a small herd of deere as the entered the meadow. Four does, and at least two bucks, one of which was freakin'  _old,_  since even from this distance Drip could see that his rack was  _huge._  The doe at the front sniffed the air, looked cautiously around, and once she shook herself out an began to pick slowly through the tall grass, the rest of the herd followed suit. Every once in a while one would look up at them, stare for a while, and then decide that the two dirty Bobcats at the other end of the grass didn't pose too much of a threat. The herd kept its distance just the same.

He felt himself starting to doze (with marshmallows still in claw; he was sure he was going to choke to death one of these days) when another deere meandered slowly out of the woods. Drip wouldn't have given it much attention at all, except that this one emerged from the woods  _much_  closer than the rest. It sniffed around the grass for a bit, before looking up at them, seeing its company for the first time. Drip half expected it to bolt, or at least find somewhere else to be, before it turned square to them and bellowed. This woke Avalanche with a start, and blew away Drip's grogginess. The buck closed a little ground, just a few feet, but it was moving in the  _opposite_  direction than a normal deere should be taking. Drip had a healthy respect for animals that were taller and faster than him. This one could not be very old, his rack only had a couple lights on it, but this sucker was  _big,_  especially for its age, and a good, territorial charge could absolutely mess him the hell up. That did not a good day make, and he would like to avoid it as much as possible.

It sniffed the air again, face wrinkling back into that funny-looking expression Windlifter said they used to take in scents more accurately (flay-something display? If he made it out without being gored, he'd ask him when he got back). Whatever they smelled like clearly did not discourage it whatsoever, because it rolled ever closer, not something that had the makings of a charge, maybe, but deliberate curiosity all the same. It gave a quiet grunt as it set tires inside their safety zone, and once within a good forty feet it shook itself out and relaxed. And made a beeline for them.

"HEY DRIP…" Avalanche was giving the big deere a sideways look, as if not sure if he should attempt to scare it off or just keep sitting quietly.

"Yeah, dude, I know." Drip was churning around those very same ideas. Sit and let a big deere buck poke casually around their site, or get a light rack buried in his face. Decisions, decisions.

The deere got to about ten feet in front of Drip, stopped, and let out some kind of sound. Something friendly-ish. At least, he sure thought so. Not a real grunt and way too quiet to be a bellow. More of a deep, male… mewl?

Now, didn't that sound familiar? Drip set his jaw against any kind of a surprised gasp. No way. Not in a million years. That was the kind of stuff that got a couple million views on the internet, if you could record it, but was so rare in reality that most people couldn't ever fathom it happening to someone they knew in their lifetime. Wild animals reintroduced to the wilderness went off to do what they did best, far away from people. They certainly didn't come back… to the people that…

Oh.

"Hey, 'Lanche?" Drip shot Avalanche a look. The big bulldozer met his gaze as a massive toothy smirk just about split his face wide open.

"YEAH, I THINK SO."

The deere got close enough to sniff Drip's claw, and then to start pushing its muzzle against the bag of marshmallows contained therein. He set the bag down and reached out slowly. The buck gave him just the barest notice as it nosed into his snacks. He stroked gently up its canopy, being especially light with its rack. He only stopped when it pulled its face back up, a good half-dozen marshmallows in its mouth.

"Hey, those are mine!" He managed to pull the bag back and close it, aware that there was probably deere slobber on several more marshmallows inside. It gave an indignant grunt, which of course was thoroughly ruined by the sugary, white foam on its mouth as it chewed enthusiastically.

"It's a good thing you're so damned cute."

It sniffed around the ground for anything else resembling food, before moving to do slow, investigative circles around both of them. Avalanche smiled hard as he let it sniff his face, and gave a good-natured growl when it licked him with its nasty, marshmallow-slimed tongue. Eventually it made its way around the dozer and back up in between them, prodding insistently at Drip's lift arm and staring intently at the marshmallow bag.

"Hell no. These aren't even good for  _me_ , so you shouldn't be eating  _any._  You've already had more than most deere get in their entire lives."

It stared at him before giving another of those adult-rumbly-mewl sounds that really were the grown-up version of the cries it made a year and a half ago. And then it flopped heavily into its suspension, wiggling its wide body right in between Drip and Avalanche. He winced a bit when one of its massive rear tires rubbed hard against his plating and treads, but it eventually stopped moving once it was comfortable.

The trio sat like that long enough for Avalanche to start snoring, and Drip could feel sleep tugging on his eyelids, too. The deere flicked one of its side-view mirrors, and Drip could see something stamped on the back. A barcode and number, the kind they tagged animals with. He didn't think it was possible to grin any harder, but he must have found a way, because his cheeks hurt something fierce. Nice to know that time hadn't altered the little fawn's personality much at all, namely "I want to be  _here_  right now, and I know none of you have the heart to make me move." Only difference was that it was currently large enough to push back when handled.

At least now Drip had more stories to tell when they got back to base.

Blade'd be so sorry he missed out on the snuggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here y'allz go, more cuteness for no good reason.
> 
> It's 0032, and I can't really see straight. Blah blah typo gnomes, blah. Will trap and relocate 'em when I'm awake enough to use my eyes and brain properly.


	20. War Stories - Patch

Sometimes, it was hard to be the odd one out.

Unlike everybody else, the thickest of the action rarely came her way. She heard it, as long as their radios were open, and if the excitement made it’s way back to the base then she could look down on it from the tower. It was a rather natural division, front-line firefighters and base staff, but it still tingled uncomfortably sometimes. Even medical had their own part in the most extreme incidents to come out of the field; the only one with immaculately clean tines was her. Frustrating, sometimes, to be unable to do much more than listen, but her training was firmly in communications and IT. Sure, she could tell you what a progressive hose lay _was_ , but hell if she could perform one to any acceptable standard (probably a bad example, since Blackout was probably the only one on base that had actually performed hose lays on a regular basis; the others had only touched water supplies when they worked with brush trucks during a campaign).

She’d also learned how to sing the Ballad of the Unsung Hero, which for anyone trained as ATC sounded a lot like a quiet sigh. Her predecessor, having stuck around long enough to see her trained to the chief’s satisfaction, had reassured her through a wide smirk.

“You’ll never hear about good dispatchers. Ever. Unless they happen to do something absolutely heroic over the radio, which is damned hard. You _will_ , however, hear about the bad ones. Over and over and over again. If they aren’t complaining about you, it’s a good sign.”

When she was hired, she’d felt the sting of “that one there who’s just support staff” far more acutely. Sure, they were all friendly, but they swapped stories and rough jokes and “man, does that still hurt?” jibes nonstop, never mind pausing to breathe, and Patch had zilch to contribute. Her mentor had addressed this, too.

“Firefighters love to talk, trust me. When something exciting happens, the first person they will often tell will be their mechanic, mostly because they are immobile enough to not have anyone else within earshot. When they get released, they are gonna come running to _you_. You’d think that if they somehow didn’t let someone know how awesome their day was, they’d explode immediately. You smile about it now, but trust me, eventually you will be kicking them out of the tower because they are trying to talk your brain into some form of viscous liquid.” He’d shot a cautious look around before dropping his voice. “Be careful if it’s the smokejumpers. Seriously. A, because they break stuff in their exuberance. B, because they will come tell you things as a group, and you will get a five part adventure in stereo surround sound, with enough expressive arm waving that you’d think they were doing an interpretive dance. And for the love of all that is holy, if you’re going to listen, make sure they haven’t had anything, erm, _potent_ to drink yet.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Also, don’t let the helos perch on the tower roof. They can chat with you with all their tires on the ground, like a normal person.”

Patch decided right there that that sounded fantastic. Bring on the story time now, please!

Once deemed work worthy, she’d assumed her role with gusto. She certainly didn’t expect them to warm up to her immediately, but the somewhat habitually insular community integrated her with a polite slowness. Even so, she never felt excluded. Her crew was tight, and they all found time to at least have a conversation with her throughout the day. Because these were people who built bridges over natural divisions.

Or, more recently, dirt ramps to hurdle themselves over. Because, of course, the smokejumpers would shatter her quiet solitude one evening with the Saga of Why Rocks are Terrible Things to Have Rolling Down the Hill Towards You. Once thus vented, the rest of the base would soon follow suit.

Patch slowly gathered the last few of her things as closed down the tower for the night. It had been almost twenty years now, and everything her predecessor had told her had come to pass. Except for one; she _did_ palpably feel their appreciation, especially after that one recent incident where they were doing joint training with a neighboring county; they’d returned and Patch had found herself the recipient of a surprising amount of affection, including a box of rather expensive chocolate that even Drip had _forbidden himself to eat_ , and he ate everything. Apparently, their neighbors were nice folks, but they really needed them some new dispatchers. When Dipper had taxied off the tarmac, looked at Patch, and leaned into Dynamite with a “does Patch know she totally spoils us?”, Patch was pretty sure that she had floated for the rest of the day.

GT had always waited for her to vacate the tower before considering turning in for the evening, a tradition Blade upheld as often as possible. She could expect the lights to stay on until she packed it in, no matter how hard she might insist they didn’t need to wait up for her. GT would, often in direct conflict with her request, come sit right at the bottom of the tower ramp to wait, and then give a long, over the top series of half-hearted if dramatic complaints as to why she was taking so long to wrap it up. Blade would usually just chuff quietly, but he’d keep peering out of his hangar until she was clear.

On those rare occasions when Blade could not stay awake to save his life (not surprisingly, this often coincided with Maru’s insistence that he rest to let varying injuries heal), Patch could expect Windlifter to take up the chief’s watch, either from the roof of his own hangar, or from right at the base of the tower. He was as quiet as ever, but when she’d take late snacks in the main hangar or watch a little tv before turning in, she could often expect to have some company.

And let it be known henceforth: a hefty portion of Patch’s collection of hard rock LPs was donated by Windlifter. An almost antithesis to his outwardly serious demeanor, his musical preferences had earned him several near-instantaneous friendships on base (Namely GT, Maru and Smoker, and later Lucas and Dynamite). 

Maru was both endlessly helpful and mentally grounding; when she felt bored enough for her brain to melt out of her eyes, any quick conversation with him usually included enough clever verbal hairpin turns to force her mind to congeal enough to finish the day. And he brought her coffee without any prompting. This was especially remarkable on days when she didn’t even know she _wanted_ coffee. Mechanic’s instinct, she’d swear by it. If she were _really_ lucky, she’d even get pie. As one of the few people to really absorb Theodor’s recipes for dessert, the rare moments when Maru had time to prowl around the kitchen were swiftly followed by atrocious amounts of sugary things seeming to just spring up from all the counters. Sometimes he did it during the day, when the team was out; this caused no small amount of disappointed warbling from the jumpers upon realizing they had missed fresh pie or cake coming out of the oven. Might be the entire reason why he did it, the rake.

The smokejumpers themselves were lively enough on any given day to alleviate most lower forms of boredom. Not much had changed in the transition from Smoker to Dynamite, and it seemed to be an inherited culture as much as the amalgam of their natures. And they really did come rush the tower on occasion. She listened with an honest interest in whatever had happened out on the line (the smokejumpers usually had all the juicy secrets that Patch wasn’t privy to, since only Dynamite was equipped with a radio), but had quickly learned that whomever made it up the ramp first would be primary story teller, never mind the cacophony of yelling at their back. In the same vein, she sometimes had to steel herself when she felt the rumbling shake of Avalanche’s treads on her ramp, because she was going to get a head-rattling, brassy retelling of whatever had happened to him. Because an excited Avalanche got even louder, which did not seem possible, and in the confines of her small tower the resulting sound could be weaponized, truly.

It _was_ hilarious, however, to hear his recollection of the Epic Tale of Bees in a Stump. Patch had thought she’d be sick, she had laughed so hard. You could still roll up to any smokejumper and interject their conversation with “AND THEN, BEES!” and cause laughter to the point of tears.

Dipper was always good for a light conversation. She could get a little tenacious when the topic would drift towards relationships, but it wasn’t anything Patch found overly bothersome. And on race day, she was the best company. _No one_ knew stats like Dipper. Patch kept a radio tuned to the sports channel while she worked, often as not, and her usual partner in such topics would sometimes come barreling out of her hangar towards the tower, shrieking excitedly. Yes, Patch had heard that. Quite an upset that pass was, yes. When Dipper got really heated, it was best to just let her wind herself down; you couldn’t force that kind of exuberance out of a person without being a complete jerk. If she got too nuts, she could sometimes be derailed into talking about gardening. This had only backfired in Patch’s face twice, so far. Turns out, Dipper could get really excited about that, too.

Cabbie was her morning company. He was an early riser, as much as her or Blade, and he often raced with the latter for the morning paper. There were many mornings where she would enter the main hangar for coffee, only to find that he had both already made it, and pulled the newspaper apart. He’d happily cough up the sports section once he was done, and had long ago taken to setting the weather report aside for her. The perfect start to her day, in quiet conversation until the higher functions of her brain could catch up; nothing that required much thought (he tended to save the somewhat heavier discussions for when Blade made it to breakfast to argue over editorials with him), but there had been more than one incident where he’d sigh, nose an article in her direction, and ask if “youth today really do these things.” And you knew things were ridiculous when Cabbie read about it and figured he was being punked. Never mind that she wasn’t really a part of “youth” culture any more, but considering that he was about four decades her senior, she’d let him have it.

Patch made her way to the bottom of the tower ramp. Even if she hadn’t been able to see Windlifter’s hulking shape from quite a ways away, she could feel the slight prickle from her ampullae as she brushed against his field. His broad rotors gave a slight twitch as she rolled under them on her way past, and he fell in line after her. Across the base she could see Blade in his hangar, the doors wide open as he worked. Patch shifted her stuff to one fork in order to wave at him, and received a lazy rotor twirl in response.

She rolled slowly into the main hangar, intent on having a snack and unwinding before she turned in for the night. There should still be several gallons of ice cream in the storage freezer. She could hear her company before she arrived, as the smokejumpers were the building’s current inhabitants. They formed a tight semi-circle around the tv, and considering the amount of noise they made, she heavily suspected that one or another game consoles were getting some heavy use. Windlifter took one look inside, decided that this was too much tomfoolery for him at this time of night, and nodded as he made his way towards his own hangar. She contemplated such a thing herself, but dear gods she _really_ wanted that ice cream. Dynamite leaned back from the huddle at Patch’s approach.

“Hey Patch! All done for the night?”

“Yep. Glad to be out of there for a while.” She eyed the plethora of ceramic bowls all over the hangar. Seems her idea was hardly original. “Please tell me you guys didn’t eat all the ice cream.”

“We shouldn’t have. I told them to save you some.” Dynamite shot the lot of them a suspicious look, and Avalanche glanced at them over Drip’s lights.

“I HID IT BEHIND THE FROZEN PEAS!” 

“Thanks Avalanche.” It wasn’t so much hidden, per say, as a bag of peas was placed over the still easily seen container of chocolate mint, but Patch still appreciated the effort.

“Hey Patch, you want in?” Drip brandished a game controller in his claw. “I mean, if you’re not too tired. You can play winner.”

“Which will be Blackout again,” Pinecone muttered around her cup of tea.

“Nice to see you have faith in me.”

“He’s been ownin’ this game all evening, Drip. Please, cream him and prove me wrong.”

“Hey now!”

“No one can rule forever, Blackout.” Dynamite pushed her way back into the throng so that she could see. If Drip was going to pull out some victory, she wanted to witness it.

“That’s what not-winners sound like.” Blackout smirked, and proceeded to lay into his own controller. As she served herself her much needed dessert, Patch could hear a singular cheer amid a cacophony of groans. A look confirmed it; Blackout was triumphant, much to his teammates’ dismay.

“So… you in?” Drip waggled his controller at her again.

“Naw. If the professionals cannot unseat the current champion, then I’d need a magical stroke of luck to win.” Patch smirked. “But I hereby knight Avalanche to champion my cause.”

“YES!”

Blackout snorted.

“No way. You already played, man. And lost. Pinecone crushed you.”

“AND NOW I’M STANDING IN FOR PATCH!” He snatched the controller from Drip. Blackout just rolled his eyes.

“Fine.”

“If you win, I’ll show you where in the freezer I hide the bonbons.” Patch winked at the hefty track loader as she settled in to watch. Avalanche blinked hard.

“THERE ARE _BONBONS_!?”

And the conversation just devolved from there. The promise of more sugar sent a wave of energy through all the jumpers. Best motivator for the group? Anything they could put in their mouths.

Patch moved a bit closer to see, and they parted a bit to let her in. This put her tires to treads with several of them, and they paid no notice to the lack of personal space. Smushed in between Drip and Avalanche, the latter of which bared his teeth at Blackout, mashed the start button a wee bit harder than strictly necessary, and uttered a strut-rattling roar that proceeded to drown and obliterate any small crumbs of her feelings of “other-ness.”

It was where she was supposed to be, she presumed. Up past her eyes in the shenanigans of her teammates.

And she was okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I promised a certain someone some Patch shenanigans, but since I don't have the firmest grasp of her character, I figured a short study was in order. Here's what vomited forth. I apologize profusely.
> 
> I did this in one day, and in two sittings. It is unbeta'd and I can no longer see straight, so you can presume my usual plague of typo gnomes to be fully present. I'll purge 'em when I wake back up.


	21. War Stories - Smokejumpers & Cabbie IV

Cabbie let a long, slow sigh out through his teeth, just one of quite a number so far today. He gave an idle spin of his starboard propeller before letting his gaze slide to his left. He eyed his port prop before setting his jaw and giving it a slow quarter turn. Huh, that didn't feel so bad, how about another—ooookay, that hurt. He winced as something inside his engine ground against something else, and he shut that motion down as swiftly as he was able.

It had been a long time since Cabbie had been grounded for an injury (read also: decades and the amount of things you could forget about therein), and he was reminded that he hated it. It was not so much that he had any pressing desire to return to the skies, more that he didn't have the option. That, and until Maru returned him to active duty, the smokejumpers would be taking the long way to work.

It was his own fault, really. A small campfire had gotten loose at around daybreak, and Blade had decided to snuff it aggressively before it became something requiring greater attention. The little blaze, however, was surrounded by a big problem. Namely the walls of a box canyon, home of one of the springs that fed into Anchor Lake. The campsite had been one of the most remote in the park; surrounded on three sides by rock, and with an outcropping high overhead that meant you had to fly either low under it or high over it. While Blade and Windlifter found this to be merely annoying, it was a far bigger obstacle for Dipper, who had a stall speed to stay on top of, and did not have a turn radius tight enough to make a level one-eighty inside the finger of the valley; she had to either gun it at the end of her drop to pitch up and out before the canyon ended, or pull into a steep chandelle. There was a meadow close to the fire that was a suitable size for the jumpers to land it, but Cabbie had some of the same issues as Dipper, and "rocky outcroppings" were on the list of things to be heavily avoided if one was parachuting out of a plane.

If he were smart, then Cabbie would have dropped them in the next closest clearing and let them hike in. If he didn't have so much faith in the old plane's abilities, then Blade would have taken that safer, more reasonable solution and worked with it. But when Cabbie took a slow lap around the small canyon, eyed the meadow, and told Blade that he had this, Blade  _let him do it._

Cabbie chuffed to himself. Foolish, on both their parts.

Cabbie had given Dynamite a heads up that read basically as "once I'm level again and pop the hatch, bail immediately." She'd readily agreed, but in the time it took her to ask about the level part Cabbie had thrown all his power to his engines and raced over the fire. Once over the stone outcropping and cleared, he rolled himself into the tightest, fiercest Split-S he could manage (or had  _ever_  managed; if the sharp yelps and indignant squawking from inside his hold were any indication, the g-forces achieved during the dive must have been considerable), which brought him under the outcropping and over the meadow. Rather low for a jump, but Dynamite's crew had handled worse conditions before. The jumper captain had bailed out almost before Cabbie's hatch was fully open, and they were all free and clear in just seconds more. He did catch a few clipped curses from the lot of them as they realized how little space they had to work with.

Cabbie had taken a much more leisurely pull up and out from the immediate fire airspace, to a few moments of stunned silence before Blade crackled over his coms.

"Holy hell."

"Can you do that again? I think I missed the part where that was believable." Dipper had pulled back off the lake into her holding pattern. "Guess I have no excuse anymore. If Cabbie can get  _into_  the canyon like  _that,_ then I can sure get out of it without looking like a Pregnant Guppy."

"I knew you had it in you, but I never thought I'd see it." Blade's smirk was a tangible thing, even through the radio. "And at well past your payload, too. What kind of engines do you even have?"

Cabbie was only half-listening. As he gained altitude from his acrobatic maneuver that could have well and killed him if he so much at tweaked an aileron wrong, he felt…something. Of the not-right kind. His port engine made a funny sound and shuddered, accompanied by an uncomfortable tingle deep in the core. He pointed his prow back towards the base; it felt like the kind of issue he should really have Maru look at.

"Cabbie?" The air boss could feel his lack of focus. And was probably wondering why he was making a beeline home; Cabbie often circled a couple times to make sure the smokejumpers made it safely to the ground.

"I'm alright, Blade. Whew, haven't had that kind of fun since—"

And then he gasped as something hot and sharp laced up from his left crankshaft, radiating out through all his nerves along the leading edge of his wing. His propellers ground to a stop with a sound that was more appropriate for a sander on wood. He briefly lost altitude before stabilizing.

"Okay, less alright now." Understatements. It was an issue that Cabbie was fully aware that he had, sometimes.

"What's wrong?" Blade had made the switch from relatively at ease to blizzard-in-the-arctic serious in the same time it took to blink.

"I haven't the foggiest. Port engine just failed, and it hurts something fierce in there."

"Can you make it back, or should I tell the lodge to expect you?"

Cabbie's left prop was starting to spin freely, and he feathered it immediately. Which felt absolutely atrocious. Cabbie just bit through it; unfeathered, the vanes would create even more unneeded friction, and he didn't want to be slowed down for any reason. Specifically, stall speed reasons. Or, y'know, for his prop to create enough drag to either fly off completely or damage his engine. Fortunately, he was within eyeshot of the last ridge before the small valley that sat at the foot of the air base.

"Naw, I got it. Its painful as hell, but my other engine still has enough power to get me home." He passed Canopy Dome, and could not be any more relieved when he actually put eyes on the airstrip.

It was a rather close landing; with only one engine doing all of the work, he did not have as much of the ability to moderate his speed in, never mind his altitude. His main gear hit the tarmac  _much_  closer to the edge of the cliff than he would have liked. He didn't bother applying his breaks, as he wasn't moving anywhere near fast enough to prevent his weight from slowing him down on its own. He let his coast carry him as far as it was able, before making the trip towards the repair bay.

Maru was waiting for him; since he kept a close ear on the radio when the team went out, he had started placing tools out on the apron of the garage as soon as it had become apparent that he would have work to do. Easy, since most of his jobs were proceeded by the word "ouch." That, and Cabbie's rough landing was probably as telling as anything. Patch was peering down at them from the tower.

"Oh, I am expecting good things from this one." Cabbie sustained the fewest number of injuries out of all the field crew. The running joke had been that the only major wound Maru would ever treat from him would be the one that finally killed him.

"If by 'good' you mean 'I was an idiot,' then yeah, you'll like this one."

"You did something extreme, I could hear it. What was it? Pugachev's Cobra? Tailslide? Barrel roll?" Maru spared the briefest moment to push over the scissor lift.

"Split-S into the box canyon east of Canopy Dome."

"Wow. And considering how heavy your kids are, that is damn impressive."

"They're all going on diets, I swear on my life."

"No amount of not-eating can make either Pinecone or Avalanche each not obliterate your rated load on their own." Never mind that people with hydraulic drives needed to consume far more than others of a similar size; unlike a car or plane, which could maneuver on the ground without any help from their engines, loaders and handlers didn't really have "free spinning" wheels. If their drive system was moving, their engine was engaged. This gave them strength, but made them hungry suckers. Maru began to remove Cabbie's engine covers. "And your boys are all earthmovers. Weight is power, and power is pride. You'd have better luck convincing an F1 to get  _heavier._ "

"Little dirtbeasts and their ridiculous standards." He was mostly kidding. While every vehicle family had their own quirks of nature that seemed downright incomprehensible to other craft, earthmovers were a pretty grounded lot. Often intense, but otherwise their immediate needs tended to be down-to-earth (pun both intended and not intended) and practical. Oh, they  _loved_  any real chance to show anyone how hard they could work, especially other movers, and both genders tended to find any test of physical ability to be normal at large gatherings, but only the most macho would rub it in your face (which was asking for someone bigger and brawnier to come kick some aft). This held true of track loaders and skid steers, in addition to true bulldozers and backhoes. In reality, Avalanche was only half the size and a  _third_ the weight of the average true dozerkin. Cabbie had seen some monsters in his life, and if you were fortunate to see pictures of Avalanche prior to his arrival at PPAA, it was evident he had butted blades with some very hefty Volvos and Zettelmeyers. Unlike pristine aircraft or car bloodlines, most true dozers couldn't give two ugly rocks about such things; as long as they could do the work, they gladly folded their smaller loader cousins into their families. Blackout had explained that makes and models for earthmovers were almost like loyalties to sports teams; you could be damned proud to be a Caterpillar, or a Bobcat, but it rarely devolved into any real superiority or enmity. And if you could square your grill to someone else of a different make, dig in your tires and win, you could make the loser pay for the next round of drinks.

UTVs were an entirely different brand of Completely Nutty that Cabbie had yet to figure out, although it often included a rugged piece of wilderness that they would insist was every bit as drivable as a proper thoroughfare. The jury was still out on telehandlers.

Cabbie spent a good portion of the rest of the morning at Maru's bay. After removing more than a few pieces from Cabbie's engine, the tug determined that he'd make a full recovery, but he was going to need time to make the repairs. Until then, the Fairchild was approximately as flight worthy as a blind tractor.

Which meant that Cabbie spent the rest of his day doing nothing.

While he could usually find plenty to occupy his time, he found that he had consumed all his readable material by early afternoon. Patch had saved him from a few hours of boredom by supplying him with a forkful of her substantial stash of magazines (which varied from highly intriguing to utter tripe), but once he had burned through those, Cabbie found himself oddly bored again. His radio was free of anything interesting, and while it was  _almost_  tempting to bother Maru for a game of either chess or cards, that was detrimental to getting his engine repaired. He gave the mechanic's bay a wide berth. As such, left alone with his niggling unrest, Cabbie decided to actually park himself in the main hangar and make use of the television (not often something he ever did during the day, although he had been know to keep other people company while they did so).

There were a lot of channels. Patch had recently finished reassembling their entertainment system around a newly acquired satellite dish. The smokejumpers may or may not still be worshipping at her tires whenever she cruised by. She had also, with some clever paperwork, had been able to add it to the lodge's usual satellite bill, which meant that for the first couple weeks, all the younger members of the base had gone a little wild with the pay per view, mostly to see if they would get caught. So far, nothing had come down the pipe. Cabbie highly suspected that whatever bill happened to end up on Spinner's desk due to media consumption by his guests was paid off promptly. "Luxury necessities," and all that.

As Cabbie perused most of the content, much of it was drivel. They had almost a thousand channels. Who, in their right mind, had time to watch that much tv and still have any cognitive ability when they were done? He was about to head back towards the sports he had passed a good three hundred channels ago, when something caught his eye.

These… these shows were  _old_. Almost as old as he was. In between deployment, and from what could be gleaned in dark hangars with static filled, jury-rigged equipment on stateside bases, he remembered all these shows from his youth. Some in black and white, others in color, most had sat in the back of his mind gathering dust. Seeing them on the massive hi-def screen Patch had gotten from who knew where was a good, hard poke in the nostalgia.

Well, it wasn't like he really had anything better to do…

Cabbie didn't realize how much time had passed until he heard a small cacophony of excited shouts waft in from outside. They must have snuffed that fire but good, if Blade felt confident enough to bring the jumpers off the line. Given that it was still before dinner, he was not surprised to hear the whole lot of them head straight for the power washer; while they had been known to show up absolutely filthy for fuel, they had all also been caught fast asleep, still under the sprayer heads.

It didn't take nearly as long as he imagined, then, before he got his first visitor.

"Hey Cabbie." Drip was sucking down a can of low grade like he'd keel over and die if he didn't. There was also still water sliding off his plating, creating little puddles as he went.

"Heya kid. Back in, finally?"

"Yeah." He took a moment to take another deep draw off his beverage. "You doing alright? We saw you book it back towards base after you dumped us." Drip's face lit up. "Which was  _awesome_ , by the way."

"Yeah? Don't let me do that again. I forgot my age for a moment."

"I promise that I'll restrain you with all my might, but I make no guarantees of my success."

Cabbie smirked. Cheeky punk. Drip gave Cabbie another quick once over, moving from the threshold of the hangar to a spot under Cabbie's wing.

"But really, are you okay?"

"Yeah. I've been hurt worse than this." And suddenly Drip was starting to make That Face again. "No, I won't tell you about it right now."

"Aw." Can still stuck to his mouth, he seemed to finally notice that the tv was on. "What are you watching?"

"Eh, old stuff. Way before your time. Possibly before your parents' time."

"No kidding. All my shows were in color."

Cabbie scoffed.  _Cheeky._

He fully expected Drip to take his leave in short order; kid had the attention span of a drunk bee. After more than a couple minutes, though, he realized that his ammpullae were still prickling off the loader's compact field. Drip was still sitting under his wing, canopy just outside the reach of Cabbie's propellers.

"You still here?"

Drip didn't even bother to look his way.

"Yeah. Is this a detective show?"

"Pretty much. More lawyers than detectives, but its got the same feel."

"Mkay…" and he continued to sit right where he was, engrossed.

Cabbie wasn't really expecting any company, but he didn't object. He should have known, though; you could never have just one smokejumper for much longer than it took to fly around Anchor Lake.

He heard the next two well before he saw them. One in particular.

"HEY, CABBIE!" Avalanche, obviously, with Pinecone. Also fresh from the power washer, but at least these two were dry.

"Hey there."

"You doin' alright?" Pinecone gave him the same brief if intense visual inspection that Drip had; her eyes never lingered on his port engine (Maru had at least put the covers back on), and he didn't really feel like elaborating on his new injury. The smokejumpers worried like a group of old ladies. Loud, beefy old ladies. He'd seen the rough nanny-ing they'd give to each other; he would much rather avoid the constant, smothering attention.

"Yeah, just feeling my age, mostly."

Drip was still facing the tv, but he rolled his eyes and looked at his teammates.

"Cabbie's pretending that he's old and feeble."

Oh,  _please._

"Wasn't that you the other day asking if I had seen any dinosaurs when I was growing up, you snide little brat?"

"Well, yeah. Because you're old. But you're not  _that_  old. And definitely not feeble."

"'Feeble' was your word, not mine."

Drip snorted, and Pinecone's face split into one of those grins that was a stark reminder that, while she may be the most polite of the group, they had still accepted her for a reason. She had enough impish streaks running through her to hold her own with the brattiest of them.

"How did you start this argument by losin', Drip?"

"I don't see you doing any better."

"WE'RE NOT TRYING, BECAUSE WE DON'T CARE."

"Just shut your face and come see this, 'Lanche."

"What are you two watching, anyhow?" Pinecone peered under Cabbie's starboard wing.

"Something awesome."

"IF IT'S NOT AS DOPE AS WHATEVER CABBIE DID TO GET US INTO THAT MEADOW TODAY, I CANNOT BE IMPRESSED." Even so, Avalanche rumbled up next to Drip, partway under Cabbie's wingtip.

"Yes you can. Grab a can and join me in taking in a show that's like Law and Order's cool older brother."

"What's it called?"

"I don't remember. Perry Something."

Pinecone looked suspicious.

"Does it feel like it ends in a Pyrrhic victory every other episode?"

"Nope. Takin' down bad guys, and feels good every time."

"I'm in." And she parked herself opposite of Drip, next to Cabbie's starboard propeller.

"Are Dynamite and Blackout still at the power washer?" Drip made to take another sip out of his can, only to be extremely disappointed to find it empty.

"Yup." And this was said with the long-suffering knowledge that both Dynamite and Blackout could be counted on to be first into the washer, and last out. The ones caught in there asleep the most? Those two, by far.

"Alright. If Avalanche will move his fat skid plate over, we can have room for them when they show up." The smirk on Drip's face let Cabbie know that he was well aware that he was goading the monster into a rough play fight that could result in some bruising. Which is exactly the result he got.

"OR MAYBE I CAN JUST MOVE  _YOU_  OVER!"

Dirtbeasts, seriously. And since one of them had the personality of almost every stereotypical bulldozer, Cabbie knew this would only get louder and more vigorous before it ended. The hell if the two of them were going to scrap it out next to his injured engine, though.

" _Children._ " And he used that tone of voice reserved for when they took his stuff or he could see evidence of little prank traps around the door of his hangar. Both loaders simmered down in short order.

Pinecone snickered, and moved forwards enough to shoot them a wide grin.

"Ladies, you're both pretty."

Avalanche didn't miss a beat, lip curling back into one of those wide, lopsided smiles that were almost large enough to cause permanent damage.

"LIES! I AM CLEARLY FAR MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN HE IS!"

Cabbie could feel his evening getting longer…

* * *

There was a lot of noise coming from the main hangar. Given the hour, Maru figured it could be the jumpers prepping for dinner, although the general consensus was that you should never let all of them cook together unless you wanted either a fantastic show or some sort of catastrophe. Fifty-fifty chance of either. And both of those options had a chance of terminating in some kind of spontaneous, wild party.

Upon looking up from his tools and taking a peek outside, he could see the massive, distinctive shadow that was the hallmark of the largest member of the base. Maru grinned; Cabbie could be anywhere on base right now, and his jumpers would follow him. You knew they were worried about you when they parked themselves in your presence and then proceeded to entertain themselves with whatever was nearby. They also got crazier; for the benefit of the injured, Maru knew, because it was hard to dwell on your own damage if the people around you drew ghastly amounts of attention to themselves. And if that required their own embarrassment, then so be it.

Maru decided to take a look inside the hangar, for his own amusement. He was not disappointed. Cabbie had the benefit of all five jumpers as company, and they carried on around him with the usual gusto. The big Fairchild was evidently enjoying himself more than not, because otherwise he would have relinquished his spot long ago. Most surprisingly, he currently maintained control of the tv remote, a task difficult for anyone not named Blade or Patch. Maru usually just gave up that fight before they could start to take it from him.

He idly wondered what sport Cabbie had landed on to command all their attention, but the conversation dictated anything but.

"I want a magic lamp with a cute magical genie in it." Drip, from around the spout of what was certainly not his first can of oil this evening, if the clutter around him was any indication.

"So desperate that you have to ask for magic, huh?" Pinecone was on Cabbie's other side from the loaders and Dynamite, with Blackout. Both were hogging a substantial bowl of popcorn.

"No, but really. Magic lamp contains hot genie that loves you. How is this bad? Lucky bastard."

"Call the papers: Drip is Desperate." Pinecone was getting better at sniping the more time she spent out here. Maru wondered what her poor family thought about them after she spent six months a year at the park.

"I am  _not!_ "

"Well, if you ever become an astronaut, maybe you can pick one up off a beach, too."

"Please. Only Dynamite could ever make weight to be sent up in a rocket."

"WAS THAT THE LAST EPISODE ON TONIGHT?"

"Naw, the guide says that there is one more after this one." Dynamite was right up against Cabbie's injured engine, close enough to fiddle with the remote, and trusted enough to not start changing the channels.

"WHOOOO!"

"How have we never heard of this show?"

"Because none of us were born before it stopped airing."

"Is this whole channel nothing but stuff like this?"

"At this hour, looks like it."

"Sweet, new favorite channel."

"You're just in it for the sexy genies."

"No! …but it helps. But all the other stuff is good too. You know, the stuff you and Blackout missed while you were preening in the shower."

"We do not preen!"

"Yes you do."

"Someone explain the word 'preening' to me, please." Poor Blackout just sounded confused.

"Like what Spinner does. That paintjob doesn't maintain itself."

"…those are fightin' words." Less confused, now. Maru could at least be confident that his saw would stay sheathed before he hit Drip about the canopy with it.

"You sure you wanna do that? It'll scuff your clean self up real good."

"I can flatten you without scuffing anything but your face."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

And the rest devolved from there. There were few things more entertaining than watching the jump team train wreck a conversation. And Cabbie sat through it, all the while. Made Maru smile just watching it.

"You guys are all adorable."

He grinned through five pairs of eyes staring at him from under Cabbie's wings. The warplane just grunted, gaze not moving from the screen.

"I think you mispronounced 'abhorrent.'"

"Nope, I meant what I said."

"Spare me."

"There is nothing more precious than watching a man with his children." And the tug knew well that he was poking the gaps in Cabbie's plating.

This time, Cabbie did look back at him. That mock glare was almost intimidating.

"Don't you even start with that. I know where you sleep."

"That you do. But do you also know how to put your own engine back together?"

"Medic Armor. Be lucky you have it."

"I am, that's why I can slide through the line of fire like this."

Blackout blinked hard, before looking at Cabbie.

"Wait, Maru took one of your engines apart?"

"No, just took out the parts that make it functional." Which, honestly, could have been anything inside his engine.

"I've grounded your old man until tomorrow morning."

"Aw. We'll keep you company." Dynamite gave him a wide smirk.

"Joy."

So dry. It hardly stopped the feels from coming out though. Maru wondered what would happen if he pushed just a little…

"Stop being stubborn. You like them and you know it."

"Tch." His eyes narrowed and his lip curled. The old carrier had his Grumpy Old Man façade down pat. Maru had to forcefully tame his smirk; too bad. He knew how to bust that up real good.

"You look like you could use a snuggle, Cabbie."

" _No_ , I do not." Cabbie's glare got fiercer, and Maru watched as a rippling realization washed slowly over the faces of the jump team. Dynamite's smirk turned into something quite a bit more conspiratorial.

"I think it's time for a group snuggle, guys."

"GROUP SNUGGLE!"

"No, you will  _not!_ "

"I can feel this about to happen." Pinecone shared a look with Dynamite. With Cabbie stuck firmly between the both of them, they could ensure he had few options for escape. Cabbie noticed this too, and puffed himself up as much as he was able.

"There will be no snuggling, not as a group and certainly not with me!"

"Bring it in, everyone, Uncle needs a snuggle."

" _NO!_ "

It was far too late to stop it. At this point, the only way Cabbie would have been able to free himself from the crush of his teammates would have been to struggle violently, and no matter how often he'd threaten it, old plane hadn't the heart to hurt any of them. Especially not now, while he was surrounded as they pressed themselves up against his sides, and each other, never mind personal space of any kind. Maru bolted back towards his shop; this was the kind of moment Polaroids were made for. His movement did not go unnoticed.

"You started this, Maru! Get your sorry aft back here and fix it!"

"He cannot save you from us, Cabbie."

"THIS IS WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE!"

There was a collective combination of sighing and laughter.

"…you're such a cornball, 'Lanche."

"That was downright painful."

"I swear kid, I will bite you."

"LOVE!"

Maru cackled quietly to himself. Made for each other, the lot of them. There would be a lot of posturing and grumpy hissing on Cabbie's part for the next couple days after this event, but the jumpers could read it for the affection it was.

And when Maru's photo of the occasion mysteriously disappeared, only to reappear the next week, unharmed, the tug was pretty sure he knew who the thief was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what happened here. This was spawned from watching way too much Perry Mason and I Dream of Jeannie, and I'm sorry. I can't tell yet, but some of this feels OOC. I'll give it another check in the morning.
> 
> Its been a rough few weeks, but once my finals are done by Friday, hopefully this will get more regular attention. I make no guarantees, though.
> 
> Blah blah typos blech. You know this song and dance by now.
> 
> Words!
> 
> Aero Spacelines Pregnant Guppy: This is an actual plane used to haul cargo for NASA, no joke. Look up pictures, this sucker was huge and funny looking.


	22. War Stories - Patch & Windlifter

Patch peeked out of her tower, eyes peeled for a group of vehicles that she would rather avoid if at all possible. At least until they found a different focus for their excess energy. Every once in a while, a stray smokejumper would roll by, sometimes glancing in her direction as they went about their business. They were watching though.

Patch had done goofed.

A slow, hot afternoon had driven the jump team to find a way to both cool their plating and relieve their boredom. On a day like today, with a high of close to one hundred degrees, it had come down to a water balloon fight of epic proportions. It had been fun to watch; they took sides, although allegiances were broken and remade as the day wore on. They'd even managed to drag Dipper into it—admittedly, not that hard—but all the senior members of the base watched from a distance (especially Cabbie; he had been guarded when the game had started, but when it became apparent that they did not consider him a sporting target, he relaxed and joined Blade in keeping an eye on the nonsense. Maru did not bother to take any bets, considering that membership amongst the warring factions was so fluid). The fight got a little muddy when a scuffle for territory was taken to the dusty, barren landscape over next to the dirt ramps, but if Pinecone or Avalanche noticed that they were encrusted lights to undercarriage in soil, they didn't care.

There were lulls and surges in the fighting as the sides made tactical retreats to replenish their supply. The most vicious skirmish occurred when Dynamite led Drip and Blackout against Avalanche, Pinecone and Dipper against their current monopoly on the garden hose. Dipper took more than a few good hits for the team right in the face while her companions finished filling their armaments and securing their getaway. She took a breather after that, and was honored for her service with the rallying cry "for our fallen comrade!"

It was during a quiet letup in the exchange of arms that Patch decided that it was safe to grab some lunch; turns out, she ended up meeting Maru halfway down the ramp as he made his way up with some coffee for her. Patch drew out her excursion longer than strictly necessary—anything to breathe fresh air for a few more minutes—when the teams below them clashed again. Patch and Maru paused to watch it happen, the tug with an amused snort, when a couple shots went wide and far, respectively, landing a couple bouncing water balloons on the metal ramp. Which didn't burst. Patch picked them up gingerly. She knew if she left them, they'd be discovered eventually. Alternatively, they could be rolled back down the metal ramp. Or she could chuck them point-blank at Maru. All reasonable decisions, even if Maru had enough crafty schemes up his proverbial sleeves that she could regret that last idea somewhere down the road. All in good fun, though.

Instead, Patch took a look below her, eyed her two errant balloons, and decided that these buggers were made to be thrown in an exuberant fit. Justly, she heaved one and then the other down into the fray. She rather didn't expect them to rupture; they had been hurled halfway up her tower by people who were noticeably stronger than she was, and they had made it unharmed. Instead, one connected with Pinecone, and the other with Blackout, both in the face, where they burst explosively. There was a brief break in the tomfoolery as all combatants turned their attention her way.

"Wow, didn't know you were a crack shot. Got both of them right in the kisser." At least Maru was impressed, which was saying something, considering his own rather remarkable aim. "Next time I play Drip at darts, I may have you stand in for me."

Patch was rather less impressed with herself. Oh, they were good throws, but in the process she had attracted a lot of attention.

Shots fired. Having hit a member of each team, she was essentially a target of both. Her core flip-flopped when Dynamite and Avalanche shared a sharp-toothed smirk that was laden with Ideas That Should Not See the Light of Day.

"First team to tag Patch wins!"

Maru ducked, laughing, as Patch fled back inside the tower with her coffee under a hail of balloons.

She had stayed there for the rest of the day. She was safe inside; never mind doors and walls, but the tower was a blanket "no shenanigans" zone, as designated by Blade. This was respected, but Patch could not hide in here all evening. The jumpers knew it, too; she was sure than each one of them that drove by was scouting, especially since it got more frequent as evening fell. Never had her end of shift been quite so long. And she didn't want it to end, because it meant that she'd have to go  _outside._

At around eight thirty, Patch was getting antsy. Oh, she wanted out of here something fierce, but she could feel some sort of watery retaliation lurking nearby. She hadn't seen a smokejumper in a good forty-five minutes, but that didn't mean that they couldn't see  _her_. By nine fifteen, though, she was ready to bite the bullet and accept whatever waited for her.

She gathered up her things, including a small file that needed to get to Blade's desk before she turned in for the night. Once out of the tower, she looked across the dark tarmac, dotted only with the lights on the runway and a few errant lamps. Somehow, it felt farther than usual. Patch  _almost_ flinched when something rustled in the bushes behind her tower. Oh, she hoped so much that it was some kind of bird.

She  _did not_ rush across the wide taxiway towards Blade's hangar. That was for people expecting bad, terrible, wet or muddy things to happen to them at the claws and blades of her overly energetic teammates... ahem, either way, she did not hurry. No sir.

About halfway out, however, Patch swore she could hear things. More rustling in the trees at the edges of the property. The rumble of a small forkful of engines, far apart from each other, and muffled enough by buildings and foliage that she couldn't tell where it was coming from. And then, off near the entrance road by where she had left the tower, she could see floodlights. Considering how high they were off the ground, they had to be canopy mounted. Only five people on base had canopy lights.

They were skulking around the taxiway. Hiding in the woods. Patch briefly wondered if this is what deere felt like when they were stalked by a group of arctic cats.

She decided not to gun it towards her destination; knowing the jump team, any sign of her freaking out was going to attract them faster than alligators on a lame duck. At a couple hundred feet from Blade's hangar, however, she could see something shiny, metallic, and yellow lurking in the shrubbery, just close enough to Blade's personal helipad for the lights to illuminate it.

Well. This was awful.

Screw it. She was gonna bolt for Blade's hangar and hope he answered the door fast enough for her to not get caught; it was too late at night to get soaked to her struts.

Patch almost jumped clean out of her own plating when the light outside the hangar on her right flickered on, the door sliding open shortly after. Patch let out the breath she didn't know she was holding as Windlifter leaned out of the threshold, poker face firmly in place. She felt a bit like a dork, clutching her paperwork as she stood alone in the dark. How best to explain this so as to not look completely foolish?

Instead, Windlifter cocked his head to the side, listening, and Patch could hear some rustling deep in the woods behind his hangar. Could be anything. Really. There were animals out here. And then there was a sharp snap, like a small log or large stick being crushed. Deere were generally more careful than that, but heavy track loaders with thick tread belts were not. And were certainly big enough to run over a log. Oh, she was caught, now. Outrunning one of them was nigh impossible (for her, at least; forklifts were not famous for their alacrity), and once they made enough noise to summon the others—

"Get in."

Come again now? Windlifter moved aside, tilting his massive head out of the way, and giving her a clear shot into his hangar.

Well hell. Something about gift animals in mouths and blah blah get her out of here!

Patch wasted no time in taking him up on his offer. She ducked passed him, hearing Windlifter nudge the door shut behind her. Outside, there were signs of people in the space she had just vacated. Patch could hear the rumble of several engines, just on the other side of the hangar wall. And whispers, lots of whispers.

"Well, dammit."

"Where's she at?"

"She just dipped into Windy's hangar."

"Oh hell. Really?"

"Yeah."

"Wait, then where's Windy at?"

"In his hangar, duh."

"Oh." A pause. "Hey…"

"Don't even, Drip. This is not the time to make things weird."

"Yeah, stop stealing 'Lanche's job while he can't fight back."

Queue several snickers, and a single low growl.

"Yes you, Avalanche. You keep your big trap shut. Patch isn't deaf—"

"…she'd have to be to not hear him…"

"—and I don't want to utterly blow all our cover now."

A muffled snort, presumably from the loader currently under a gag order.

"She ain't blind either. She knows we're out here."

"Of course she knows. That's why she's hiding in  _Windlifter's hangar._ "

"So… what next?"

"We can't ambush her here, too close to Blade's space. I'm surprised he hasn't poked his head out to stare at us yet."

"Plan, dudes, we need a plan."

"Huh." A pause, longer this time. "Let's head back towards the tower. She can't stay on this side of the base all night."

"Not unless she wants to bunk with 'Lifter or Blade."

"Hey…"

"Shut your damn mouth, Drip."

"Aw."

They pealed out in short order. Which was both a relief and not. At least they weren't  _here,_  but it meant that now they were  _there._  Which was apparently near the tower somewhere. Not comforting.

She sighed and turned to the massive green helitanker, his head still cocked slightly as he listened to her hunters leave.

"Thanks, Windlifter. Young punks have been after me all afternoon." She made a face. "Take my advice: never join their balloon fight unless you're ready for them to finish it. And they  _will_ finish it."

"Hm." Windlifter's expression didn't change in the slightest, but he was churning something around inside his head. She could feel it.

Patch peeked out a window. Not a jumper in sight, and they had formally declared this space as Dangerous Due to Proximity To Blade. At least she could get her last chore of the day done with minimal interference.

"Alright, I'm gonna go turn in records to Blade. It's late enough for him to start getting impatient." She cracked the hangar door just a bit. Still nothing, although Cabbie was leaving the main hangar on his way across the base. In her more delirious moments, she could imagine some sort of terrible collaboration between the massive cargo plane and his jumpers, his whole hatch filled to brim with earthmovers and water balloons, like some awful Trojan horse. Because while he might fake the funk most of the time, Cabbie had his own streaks of mischief that matched anything that bubbled up out of Maru, no joke. It was about as rare as watching a leprechaun ride a unicorn, but you knew when it happened. Probably a side result of being stationed at Piston Peak Air Attack for so long; everyone here had horns to hold their halos up.

Patch sighed. She'd been doing a lot of that, this evening. Well, best get this over with. Maybe she could stretch out her meeting with Blade for a bit longer than strictly necessary…

She yanked her tines out of the way in surprise as Windlifter nosed the door back shut. She cocked a brow up at him. Windlifter regarded her briefly before turning and heading towards the back of his hangar.

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I really need to turn in—"

"You need a distraction."

Patch blinked, slowly.

"Come again?"

Windlifter was carefully nuzzling through several boxes of things towards the back corner.

"There are animals in the ocean that exude ink or mucus when confronted by predators; the former to cover their escape, the latter as a distraction." He buried his nose deep in a crate.

"Ooooookay… but I'm besieged by people, not wild carnivores. " Debatable, really. "They're smart enough to not be dissuaded by something so simple in practice. So unless you have some smoke bombs in here, and y'know, a five minute training crash course in how to be a ninja, I don't know if it's going to help."

Instead, Windlifter came back up with the corner of a large package held gingerly between his teeth. Patch took a good look, and shivered. If there was one solution that she would not suggest right now, it was what the big Skycrane was currently holding.

A very large package of water balloons. Why the hell he had them, Patch hadn't the foggiest idea, but this was a dangerous, slippery,  _soaking wet_  slope she had no desire to travel down with him.

"Oh hell no. Did you hear me warn against this very thing? Water balloons got me in this to begin with. If I go out there, armed and waiting for them, they are going to eat me alive!" Patch crossed her tines in a huff. "I'll be lucky to throw just one to any effect."

"You will not be throwing them."

Patch scowled suspiciously at him as he set the back of balloons at her tires, and retrieved the cargo container from the back wall of his hangar. Detachable, like his retardant tank, but used to haul the small amount of personal effects he shuttled to and from the base every season. What did he need that for?

Windlifter placed it over near the water faucet against a wall, inclining his head to beckon her over.

"Before you meet with Blade, please help me fill this."

Patch set her paperwork aside, and gathered up the water balloons. They were going to make enough to fill the cargo container? Patch could feel some sort devilish grin fighting to take control of her face. So they really weren't going to throw these. She didn't know what the big chopper had in mind, but Windlifter did few things without diligent thought. And he  _never_ pranked. Or, at least, was never  _caught._  Oh, this was going to be good.

"So, inquiring minds want to know, what  _are_  we going to do with these?" Patch tore open the bag of balloons and emptied them onto the floor.

Windlifter gave a lazy half twirl of his rotors.

"You will be doing nothing but going to meet with Blade." He gave her a pointed stare, straight face still in place, but with an undercurrent of something wily. " _I_ will be finishing this water balloon fight."

* * *

Blade carefully filed away the records Patch had just left him. She was later than usual, and had come in apologizing profusely; considering the rarity of any deviation from the usual evening schedule, Blade hadn't made much of a fuss over it. Besides, it seemed that she had somehow run afoul of the jump team, and was actively avoiding them, if the hushed conversation that had taken place outside of Windlifter's hangar was any clue. Patch had spent their meeting looking back towards the jumper hangar every few minutes, although she had smothered a smirk when Windlifter had rolled leisurely over towards the main hangar. Blade remembered frowning; his lieutenant had his cargo container attached as he went. Odd, since he rarely touched it except at the beginning and end of the reason. He also had a small box of… something in his mouth. Once Patch was done dragging out their conversation (an obvious stall for time; Blade was getting more suspicious by the minute), she had headed immediately back to Windlifter's hangar. The Skycrane joined her in short order. Blade had spent the next few minutes glancing around the base, but aside from some antsy shenanigans by the smokejumpers taking place in the woods near the end of the runway, nothing else unusual reared it's head. Blade resumed sorting through his paperwork.

He should have known, though, it wouldn't last.

At a little after ten thirty, there was a shrill scream from the apron of the main hangar. Considering the amount of floodlights currently in that general vicinity, he figured the jump team was heavily involved. He was sure Maru was already on top of it, but the tug was never particularly driven to quell any rowdiness unless it interfered with his sleep. Blade prepared to put the chill on some nonsense he could never have quite seen coming. The jumpers were good like that.

He arrived to find Maru gasping for breath as he laughed, the jumpers arguing amongst themselves. Blade stood corrected; they were in front of their own hangar, the bay doors wide open. No one endeavored to fill him in when he pulled up.

"What are you lot crying about over here?" He'd keep it on Mild Frosty until he determined it to require something more drastic; no need to put in more effort to something that might turn out to be rather mild.

Avalanche turned to him, eyes wide.

"WE'VE BEEN HAD!"

Blade quirked a brow, and pushed his way through the lot them. They moved aside well enough, but Dynamite stayed at the threshold of the hangar.

"Oh, someone here's got some manifolds, let me tell you…"

Blade was inclined to agree. The smokejumper hangar was filled, wall to wall, with plump, colorful water balloons. They were all over the floor, on shelves, and the jumper's individual loading docks. Here and there, Blade could see little pieces of something shiny and metallic interspersed within. Brass tacks. No joke, there were brass tacks mingled with the balloons. Nothing that could do any damage to the rugged tires and thick treads of the jump team, but a terror to fat, thin-skinned water balloons. Blade poked a large, blue balloon with his nose, carefully. It jiggled.

Oh, yeah, the jumpers had been had, alright. He could not stop a smirk from dancing across his face.

"This is impressive."

"I'm impressed, too, but it's all over my floor." Dynamite's face flipped rapidly back and forth between amused and not amused. Blade himself was firmly the former.

"So, which one of you is the traitor?"

Pinecone snorted.

"It ain't any of us! We were all in the woods—erm,  _busy,_  somewhere else. We found it like this." Blade arched a brow. "Honest!"

"It's Patch. I swear it's her."

"But she hasn't come back over from the aircraft hangars, yet. I should know, I was on lookout!"

"Hey Maru…"

The mechanic had regained enough control to come up to Blade's flank, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Don't blame this on me. These are the kind of stunts that I have  _you_  kids for."

The purple tug had a particularly cutting edge to his grin; he may not have done it, but he sure knew who did. Blade himself had some pretty solid theories. Man, the big brute had worked damned fast. Brought back all sorts of old memories. Ah, to be young enough for this stuff again…

Maru leaned inside the door and looked around, before shooting Blade a smirk.

"I think the most fun part about this will be watching them clean it up."

Blade could not help but return it.

"You got the camera ready?"

"Please, I wouldn't miss this if I was dead."

"Let me ping Cabbie, if he's still awake. He'll get a kick out of this." Given the groans received, the smokejumpers did not share this sentiment.

Drip gingerly picked up a single balloon.

"How are we gonna get rid of all these? Not one at a time, I hope."

Blackout gave one a soft prod.

"We may be able to just scoop 'em all out." He looked behind him. "Good thing we have a specialist."

It was right here when Blade figured he should watch the rest of this from a safe, dry distance. Maru seemed to agree, joining him with Polaroid camera in tines.

Avalanche frowned.

"I DON'T THINK THAT'S A GOOD IDEA…"

"Just be gentle, and they won't pop. At least until they get outside, then we don't care."

The track loader remained skeptical, but he put his blade at the hangar threshold all the same.

Pinecone backed up.

"I don't have a good feeling about this."

"ME NEITHER. WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT ALL THE TACKS?"

Blackout's confident smirk was wiped clear off his face.

"Wait, there are  _tacks_  in there!?"

And then Avalanche's treads started moving.

* * *

Patch was eyeing her current hand of cards when the screams started. She grinned, hard enough to hurt her face, put her cards down and pushed the hangar door open wide so they could watch. Or listen, as it were. Windlifter joined her at the threshold.

"I knew this was a bad idea!"

"That's because it was Blackout's idea!"

"How was I supposed to know there were tacks in there!?"

"Maybe by looking!"

"OH GAWD, THERE'S WATER EVERYWHERE!"

"Avalanche, dammit, stop moving!"

"I HAVE STOPPED! THEY'RE ROLLING AND BOUNCING AND  _POPPING_  ON THEIR OWN!"

"Grab them, quick! Before they all explode!"

"Oh, it is  _far_  too late for that!"

"My grapple is not helping—wait, Drip! Stop! Don't back into that!"

There was a pause and a muffled crash as something in the jumper hangar fell over, presumably taking dozens of balloons with it.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Flaming hells, it gets worse!"

"It's in my eyes!"

"Then stop driving over the rest of them!"

"Ohmigosh, I'm blind! My friends, I am blind!"

"Avalanche, stop Drip from flailing so much!"

"HE'S WAY OVER THERE!"

"So  _what!?_ "

"THERE ARE BALLOONS AND TACKS BETWEEN HERE AND THERE!"

"Oh, by Chrysler!"

"What the hell have we done!?"

Even from this distance, and through the cascade of tears that streamed down her face, Patch could see light reflect off of Blade's red hull as he watched. All the while came raspy, gasping peals of laughter. Maru might as well be having his Christmas right now. Not that Patch was in any better state; she couldn't breathe, she could barely see, and the only reason that she hadn't keeled over right there was because she was leaning on Windlifter's starboard rear landing gear.

There was more shrieking from the jumper hangar. Clearly there were now mops involved. Patch wrapped her tines around the support booms of his landing gear, unable to even form words (or any sound that wasn't a gaspy-waily laugh) anymore. The Sikorsky did not object. Which was good, because she didn't know if she could move. Her insides  _hurt._

Windlifter's broad rotors twitched, the only outward sign of any humor.

"And that, Patch, is how you finish a water balloon fight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shenanigans. This is what I do best. I really do need to stop letting the smokejumpers hijack chapters that don't belong to them. Ah well. They'll get a break here soon.
> 
> Words!
> 
> Arctic Cat: a brand that is most famous for its snowmobiles and ATVs. I have no idea what differentiates sentient from non-sentient living machines, but until further notice, I'm using arctic cats as wild animals. The larger, solitary but more aggressive bear cats (a particularly large, rugged line of Arctic Cat snowmobiles) may eventually make an appearance.
> 
> Typos. They are here. I know, because I found five of them even before I was done posting this. Forgive me.


	23. Chapter 23 - Blade & Dynamite

It was a hot, quiet night on base. 

Well, relatively. Dipper was stuck firmly in front of the television, watching recaps of the most recent race, and the occasional shrill squeal filtered out across the base. Cabbie had turned in a good couple hours ago, and Patch had followed not long after. Windlifter was still up, possibly, perched on the roof of his hangar. He had fallen asleep up there before, though, especially when it was so warm at night that it was more comfortable to sleep outside. Maru was tinkering with a tread belt that Drip had snapped the previous night while he was clearing brush on the line. Blade himself was still in his hangar, bay wide open, nosing through the routine paperwork that flitted across his desk on a regular basis. The smokejumpers were in their own building, doors open to let air in, although they occasionally glanced in to the main hangar to see what Dipper was intermittently excited about. Eventually it was decided that they should demolish a box of popsicles before trying to turn in. He wasn’t sure if it would make it any easier for them to get to sleep, but at least it might cool their cores a little. Blade let his eyes wander around the dark base, before spotting something on one of the precipices that marked the boundaries of their home away from home.

Well, _most_ of his smokejumpers were demolishing a box of popsicles.

There was very little to give the UTV away aside from the gleam off her plating, although there was enough natural light from the moon and stars that Blade could see well enough once he removed himself from the artificial lighting of the buildings and let his eyes adjust. While everyone on base had their own methods of seeking out some time alone with their own thoughts, Dynamite’s generally didn’t include staring out over the valley at the edges of the base.

Under normal circumstances Blade would simply let her be, but the recent turnover in staff that had finished out last season was starting to wear on the new jump team officer, and it showed. They were only a month in to this year’s shift, and Dynamite was starting to fray at the edges. Smoker had coined her nickname, and it was ever so apt of late.

The long time Squad Captain of the smokejumpers had finally decided to retire. He had been feeling his age for some time, but had been putting off setting work aside in favor of having fun for just a few more years. Such was his nature. He hadn’t chosen a replacement, leaving it up to Blade’s discretion (although he had made his opinions on all possible promotees quite clear). Blade had his own opinions, but he put the issue to informal vote, after a fashion. Dynamite emerged victorious, to no one’s surprise but her own. She had spent the next couple months trying to absorb all of Smoker’s nuggets of wisdom, right up until the end of the shift. But then the state called; active fire season was being extended by six weeks. Everyone at base was on board, of course… except for Smoker. He held true to his last day, and once he made his grand exit (and it was grand; his teammates had thrown him probably one of the most extreme parties this base had ever seen), Dynamite and the guys were on their own. They rallied together though, and finished the season strong. Blade didn’t have any real complaints regarding their performance.

It seemed, however, that winter vacation had played havoc with her self-confidence, because while the team, as a whole, was still operating at an acceptable capacity, Blade had some very real worries about Dynamite’s mental resolve.

Blade did not bother trying to be stealthy as he approached her on the cliff (since, really, if you got joy out of startling people as they looked down a rock face a couple hundred feet tall, you were an awful person), but Dynamite didn’t even acknowledge his presence until he was only a couple of his own lengths away. She turned just enough to look at him, sitting higher and stiffer on her suspension.

“Good evening, Chief.”

Blade cocked a brow. Titles now, really? It was past eleven, too late at night for that nonsense. He was not, however, surprised; since she’d taken over the smokejumper CO mantle, Dynamite had become almost painfully rigid in regards to acknowledging her new status in the chain of command. She was fast becoming all rules, all the time. Not because of anything resembling arrogance, but a constant self-affirmation of her new title and the very real responsibilities it carried. She reported directly to Blade now (or Windlifter, although the Skycrane had so far refused to play into her formal, rank-based confidence boosters), which made her more nervous than she had so far let on. Unfortunate, because a high-strung Dynamite worried too much about slag that didn’t matter, while a calm one was so utterly adaptable to the constant change in work conditions that made up their day-to-day. If she could just _relax_ …

But something in her clearly needed that inflexible paramilitary chain of command to grab a hold of, or she wouldn’t still be clinging to it so tenaciously. It didn’t bother Blade in the least, except that it was so counter to her own nature as to be unsustainable in the long run, and was apt to do more harm than good. It was so very late, and Blade’s tired brain protested weakly, but he’d play this game for a short while.

“Evening, Squad Captain.” He rolled next to her, close enough to put her inside his rotor disc.

“I didn’t expect you to be out so late.”

“I wouldn’t be, except one of my smokejumpers was lurking out at the edge of my base by herself, which is rather uncharacteristic of her.”

Dynamite frowned slightly.

“Is it?”

“When taken with what has happened over the last couple weeks, yes. It is.”

A sigh, and a real frown. 

“Oh hell, what have they been doing?”

“Nothing much.” Not anything unusual; the rest of her team was still into water balloons, video games, and those stunt ramps that Cabbie still swore was going to injure one of them some day. There had also been that brief prank war with Maru that they had respectfully bowed out of before they got summarily embarrassed. The standard idle base amusement, unless your name was Dynamite, who’d been up to her eyeballs in the smokejumper SOPs for days on end, as if trying to commit that entire fat binder to memory. Her reluctance to put aside her new rank in favor of joining her team in the nonsense was starting to cause some palpable rifts in the usual easy-flow team cohesion. Which was just plain unacceptable. “I do, however, have a couple issues to hammer out with _you_.”

Dynamite stiffened noticeably.

“Of course, sir. What can I do for you?”

“You can get it together.” He turned enough to look her square in the face. “Smoker retired last year, and you finished out the season without him. And you did as well as he said you would. You were testing the waters a bit, which is normal for an abrupt change in rank, but it went smoothly. What happened over the winter to make you fall apart?”

“Nothing, sir, I just got a grip.”

Funny. Could have fooled him. 

“Oh really?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please, enlighten me, what led to the current conclusion that tells you how to do what you do?” Blade frowned. “Because right now, I’m having doubts that your current modus operandi is effective.” 

“It sure feels more effective than what I was doing…” Blade quirked a brow. “Really, it does. The end of last season was… uncomfortable, for a wide variety of reasons. I don’t… I don’t know. None of us were ready for Smoker to leave. Somehow we thought we’d be following his tailpipe through the ash forever.” Dynamite sighed. “At least _I_ thought so.”

“He thought he’d be doing it too.” Blade gave a soft snort. “He was here even before I was, before Maru was. Even before _Cabbie._ Old guy had lived a rough life, and he liked it that way. He knew he was playing with fire, though. At his age, jumping out of planes every day for half a year takes a toll. He told me about some of it. I think he told Maru more, and I know he, Cabbie, and Theo would have some long chats about age and living their retirement on the fire lines.”

“If he felt old, he didn’t ever show us. Hardly the largest earthmover, but he’s probably the most rugged bastard I’ve ever met.” Dynamite smiled. “Every time we reached our limit, he’d look at us from over some hill and wonder why we couldn’t keep up.”

“Because, in his day, they put out fires uphill in the snow both ways?”

“Worse. He’d tell us that the CoE made him do emergency repairs to dams, levees, and canals in the driving rain and flying hail and maybe a hurricane or three.” Her smile was a grin now. “’C’mon, pups! Don’t let my old aft beat y’all up this hill. You’re too young to be tired yet! Ya can’t let your crusty alpha do all the work!’”

Dynamite’s mouth closed with an abrupt click, her throat closing on some sound that Blade was fairly confident was a slight crack in her voice. Smoker’s own catchphrases probably felt strange rolling off her tongue, but they were said with the all the affection of a student for a trusted mentor.

His pups. His dogs. Smoker had always referred to the jump team as his pack, and wild personalities aside, he ran it like one. He rode herd on a hefty bunch who were high energy and impulsive, and he kept the reigns very loose. “I let the beasts do their thing,” he’d told Blade once, “and it works out great. They got good hearts and sharp instincts, and they’re all at least as smart as a couple of cave shrimp. Ya just gotta train ‘em, and the rest comes natural.” All kidding aside, Smoker thought highly of every jumper selected to join his team. He respected them, truly, and they gave it right back in spades, which allowed him to crack those loose reigns and know they would do what he asked of them, and happily. As long as the work got done and no one was hurt—at least, not too bad—success was always met with a wide grin, a rough nudge or two, and a drink or five.

It made them tight, though. When asked, at any point during the day, where his smokejumpers were, you could expect a “Pfft, I don’t know,” and an unworried shrug out of the old loader. Often, it was true. But when the tone went out and it was time to roll, Smoker could lean out of any doorway with a “Where my dogs at!?” and hell if you wouldn’t hear a disjointed cacophony of “ _AahhOOOO! AahhOOOO! AahhOOOO!_ ” from across the base as they gunned for their gear.

Dynamite was fidgeting with a front tire, lips pressed fiercely together. She stayed that way for a while.

“I miss it.” She rolled her tongue in her mouth to unstick it. “I miss _that._ We worked, we _flowed_ , when he was here. It was so easy. He made it look easy, Blade.”

At least she had finally dropped the ‘sir.’

“He’s had practice, Dynamite. Lots of it. Even natural leaders have to work out how they’ll do what they do. There will be some trial and error. Some growing pains.” He shot her a sideways look. “Eventually, something will click.” 

“Uhg, how did he manage to keep track of all of us? Everything happened the way he wanted them to happen, but it never felt like he’d had to shepherd us around to make it so. I get out there, with the guys, and I just… I _can’t._ I can’t let go that much. If something happened on my command, or lack thereof, I couldn’t look them straight in the face and be comfortable with my results.” Her gaze was out across the valley, but she didn’t seem focused on anything in particular. “I can’t lead like that.”

“Then stop trying.” Blade pinned her with a stare until she met his gaze. She faltered now and then, but he’d take it. “You right, you cannot lead like that. Probably why you think that the end of the last season felt so off. It was unnatural for you.”

“I know. I do. But its how we’ve been run for years. I don’t want to change it—“

“Oh, seriously. Is this for their sake?” He nodded towards the jumper hangar. “They’re adults. They’ll deal. If not, boohoo. But you cannot hope to lead like Smoker, no more than I can lead like GT.”

Dynamite searched Blade’s face. Well, that struck a bit of a cord. Inside, she felt some kind of knot begin to loosen.

She had only met Chief Vortex a couple times, twice at funerals, and once when he was just passing through. She remembered talking to him a little (he’d been there to bump blades or seek consolation with his old teammates) but even those few meetings had utterly obliterated her preconceived notions on his personality, even after Maru had warned her ahead of time. He was a helicopter, as stern as she had expected, but that’s where the similarities to Blade ended. A big tandem rotorcraft, he was red where Blade was white, white where Blade was red, and if Blade’s cold blue eyes could freeze solid the fluids in your engine, Gustav’s bright brown could incinerate you where you sat. He was nice enough to her and Dipper and the rest of the newer crewmates; she’d been accepted under Smoker and Blade’s command, and he trusted their judgment absolutely, but there was fire on his tongue, even when he was nice. It was evident you needed a thick skin to serve under GT. 

All due respect to the big Boeing, she was glad she reported to Blade. She had enough fire in her life, honestly. But Blade’d said something else that she’d never really pondered over.

“Was it hard, assuming command after Chief Vortex?”

A snort.

“Hell yes. You think taking over your squad is hard, imagine waking up on a new day and now you’re in charge of the entire base. GT had been building his rapport, his friendship, with everyone on base for years. They were used to the way he led. I tried, though, to do things his way, but we are not the same people. We like things done different. Once I worked my way around that, I had a meeting with the entire base, and we discussed the changes that were to be made. For my sanity, mostly. Every so often it caused a little abrasion, but everyone adapted, got used to it, and carried on as we always did. Despite their age, Cabbie, Theodor and Smoker took the change in SOPs the best; maybe they still remember serving under a variety of COs while enlisted, but they barely even blinked during that meeting. I think I got the most whining from Lucas and Maru.”

“Maru whines?”

“He does with me.” 

“Um, why?”

“Because he likes being an obstreperous aft-dragger.”

Dynamite did not look entirely convinced. Maru was known for many things; whining wasn’t one of them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”

“Because you are not me.”

And there wasn’t really anything she could say to that. 

Dynamite sighed, and gazed down into the valley. Her workspace, she’d put tire tracks on every inch of this place, but now she rode in first, the rest of her crewmates behind. She had trusted them absolutely when she’d been rank with them; why had that changed so much, now? They were the same people, and so was she. She hoped.

“Alright. So if I shouldn’t try to mimic Smoker’s particular brand of magic, what _should_ I do?”

“Not whatever nonsense you’re doing now.” Blade was dead serious, his voice had that hard undertone to it that told her to pay close attention, because he’d be, erm, “miffed” if he had to repeat himself. “You said Smoker’s loose command style worked fine when he was leading, but difficult for you to put into practice. This rigid baloney, while refreshing for me, is the exact opposite of what you were trying to do. It’s causing some, ah, chaffing amongst your team.” Blade’s face softened a little. “You’re overthinking this. A lot. Study your SOPs, really, I will never advise that you _don’t_ , but not at the expense of your crew’s cohesion. Squad Captain can easily be what you do, if not always who you are.”

Dynamite sighed again. Exasperation, this time.

“Maybe I am overthinking this, because what the hell is the difference?”

Fair enough. It had taken him years to figure it out. No reason not to give her the shortcuts no one had given him.

“Smoker was your Squad Captain.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s it?" 

He could see Dynamite mull this over, and he pushed just a little.

“As someone looking in from the outside, I could see it. Loose as he was, Smoker was still the business when you needed business. No one ever doubts he busted aft as hard as anyone, and drove you lot to do the same. He expected nothing less than your one hundred and ten percent. But was he still just your Squad Captain when you guys painted Theo’s tires while he was napping?”

“Um…" She smothered a grin; the only reason that Theodore hadn't killed them was because Smoker ran interference.

“Or when you all spiked Lucas’ jet-A with some foul brand of internet-ordered caffeine shot that made him unbearable for about twelve hours?”

“That was good, too.”

“Or Blackout’s birthday party?”

“That was _the best_.”

“Not for those of us sober enough to remember it.”

“Does it count if I was sober enough to remember how mad you were the next day?”

“Hmph, not if you don’t remember _why_ I was mad.” But Dynamite was starting to get the point. “Smoker’s strength lay in his ability to move freely between being a friend and being a boss. This is not my strength, as I’m sure you’re aware. And I highly suspect your style of leading will, in the end, be far more similar to Smoker’s than to mine. You may need more structure, and that’s fine, but find your balance and keep it. The guys will match your pace once you have something consistent for them to follow.”

“How do I find that balance?”

“They’ve worked with you for a while now; tell them what you need from them. Over lunch, over desert, over whatever the most current game in the console is, whichever really. Outline what you want, and what you’re willing to give in return. Once everyone knows your expectations, finding your stride will come much, much easier.”

“That’s… actually some of the best advice I’ve heard.” That knot in her core had slackened considerably. It was still a tangled mess, but at least now she was holding onto one end, and she had some hints to help find the other.

“Just a little guidance from someone who had to learn the hard way.”

Dynamite relaxed. Next to her, Blade seemed content to merely allow her absorb everything he had laid out before her, gaze wandering slowly across the valley below them. She suppressed a smile; if she had known that Blade was this willing to give leadership advice, she would have pulled him aside weeks ago. She gave herself a mental kick right in the Reality; if she hadn’t been a combination of dangerously stubborn and woefully unconfident in her leadership ability, she might have bothered to ask, and it wouldn’t have come to this. Well, better late than never. 

“Thank you, Blade.”

“You’re always welcome.” And he meant it. He paused, and shot her a dry smirk. “No ‘sir’ anymore, huh?” 

She winced.

“Oh, oops.”

“Agh, I shouldn’t have reminded you.” Blade sighed, and his following growl contained absolutely no chill whatsoever. “It’s way too late at night for that nonsense.”

“The Sir Sandwhich doesn’t ease your transition between boss and friend at all?”

His smirk came back.

“I don’t need a constant formal reminder to know that I’m the boss. And I’ll be friendly when I damned well please.”

Dynamite grinned. Ain’t that the truth.

“You do all the paperwork anyways; that’s as telling as anything.”

A soft chuckled from her boss.

“That is one thing that you do much better than Smoker. He was never one for stringent records.”

“Well, then at least I’m doing something right.”

“Yes, you are. Keep it up, every form you fill out yourself saves me sleep at night.”

“Then you’ll be happy to know that I’m all caught up on timesheets, inventory, and current certification records.”

He blinked at her.

“Wait, even through that huge backlog?” Seriously? Blade had figured he’d be pulling unfinished paperwork out of all sorts of nooks and crannies around the base that Smoker had merely jammed them into for _months_.

“Yup.” 

“Wow. I should have encouraged Smoker to retire years ago. Could have had hundreds of extra hours of downtime.” Color him officially impressed; if they were ever audited, Dynamite had just saved him from a great deal of grief.

Dynamite blinked, and yawned. Blade buried a smile; if she had been relieved of her burden enough for her exhaustion to take hold, as it should, then he considered his job finished. At least for now.

She began to slowly back away from the precipice.

“Alright, I think I’m going to turn in. G’night Blade.”

“Good night, Dynamite. Sleep well, we may be busy tomorrow.”

“Aren’t we usually?”

“Yes, but you and I have some resumes to go over tomorrow after breakfast.”

Dynamite killed her engine.

“We got applicants?” They had posted a job opening at the beginning of January; they were hardly a large airbase, but the fire service was competitive enough that she figured they’d have more than just a few interests. And while it may be a bit uncomfortable, they had to fill the void left by Smoker’s departure; the four of them were starting to feel the pressure out on the line.

“We did indeed.”

“Any of them look promising?”

“More or less, I have my opinions, and you’ll have to look for yourself. It’s your team, after all.” And he pinned her with a knowing look.

“That it is.” And she accepted that responsibility. Chaffing inside, they still believed in her, and she in them. They’d power through this.

“There is one, though, who seems determined to come out here as soon as possible.”

“When you say ‘determined’…” Was it Dipper levels of determined? Because the base only needed one of those. And the hell if she was sharing a hangar with them.

“When I contacted her regarding her application being under consideration, she said she could fly out any time for her interview. I asked her how soon she thinks she could be out here to meet. She arrives tomorrow afternoon.”

“Damn.”

“She wants this job bad. I’m not sure why, since she has no experience, but she is… very eager.”

“Huh. Do you want me to take a look now?”

Blade shook his head.

“No, it will keep until morning. You’ll know her file when you see it. Young, maybe even younger than Drip. Red telehandler.”

“Oh.” Dynamite was genuinely surprised. Those were not common on jump teams. “That’s different. Could be—wait. How big is she, because if she’s a Gradall…”

“Would you really like to have this meeting right now? At, oh, eleven forty-five at night?” Blade arched a brow that told her he was so sarcastic, and that he had no intention of locating those applications tonight, so help him. She’d be out here by herself trying to read them in the dark.

“Ah, no. Sorry. I’ll let it wait.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

She grinned as she backed out and made for the jumper hangar. Blade watched her go. They had left the doors open and the outside lights on for her, which she closed and shut off, respectively. They’d be alright. She’d be alright. And once she got her groove back, she’d make a damned good officer. Smoker’s prediction had been right on the money.

And who knows; they could be about to hire someone that could bring their team cohesion to an all time high.

At least, Blade could dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sounded so good in my head, and then I threw it into a document and it did... this. I apologize. Dynamite did not want to play nice with the words without getting purple-prose-y. I culled as much of the chaff out as I could.
> 
> Words!
> 
> CoE: Nowadays known as the United States Army Corps of Engineers (USACE). Smoker did this for a while (fun), but decided that taunting death by jumping out of planes into raging infernos was more his speed (and more fun).
> 
> And because I don't think I've ever mentioned it, the white Grumman S-2T on the wall is who I'm referring to as Lucas. Just look at his face. That guy was Avalanche with wings.
> 
> It's two am, my eyes hurt, and I cannot see the typo infestation. I will get to them in the morning. Erm, later in the morning.


	24. War Stories - Ryker II

It was  _hot_ out here.

Nothing he wasn't fully prepared for; his thick hide and rugged paint were designed with high-heat fuel fires in mind. He'd stared flames a thousand degrees right in the face and snuffed them like a bad habit.

Still didn't make 109 in the scrub desert comfortable.

Ryker was, at the depths of his soul, a metropolis kind of guy. While hardly a social butterfly, crowds didn't cause him any kind of bother (other than the sheer amount of stupid that seemed to just spontaneously bubble out of people's souls when they gathered in large numbers). He knew how to work asphalt, and how asphalt worked his body, and could take turns faster than his considerable bulk would otherwise allow. Experience worked that way. He liked his grass short, his slopes gradual, and a fire hydrant (or hardworking water tender) within five hundred feet. Maybe it was age; in his youth, it hadn't mattered where the fire was. He'd driven over trees, through fences, up and down steep grades that would have rolled less sturdy rigs, and put his all wheel drive through its most bitter, bolt-loosening paces. He was lucky he'd never broken an axel. All ARFFs who wanted to keep their certifications recent had to retrain every two years, and this included being able to reach any part of an airstrip in three minutes or less; if you had to drive over some shrubbery or cut across green space, so be it. The aircraft who needed you would thank you for it later. Nevertheless, the years had slowly weeded the thrill of responding to calls with a direct knife across an airport campus from him, and he'd learned that one could navigate taxiways with practice and precision and still be where he needed to in plenty of time.

What he would give for an airport campus right now. I-40 was a nice, straight drive, and this section was well maintained, but enjoyable as it was he did have better things to do than relish a road trip. Ryker put more power to his wheels; not much farther, just about two hours or so, at his speed. About fifteen minutes ago he'd changed lanes to dodge the lone unruly pothole, and felt water slosh through his baffles; he'd clean forgotten to discharge his tank before beginning this trip. Would have spared him the extra weight and subsequent fuel consumption. His itinerary hadn't initially called for him to drive to a new airport, but that's how life did you sometimes.

He'd been dispatched to help oversee a small plane crash that had preceded a small local airshow. The IIC was new, her first time in charge of an entire investigation, and since Ryker had almost a decade of experience on her, he was sent to lend a critical eye. Merely advisory, which he liked. Something always felt good about training those who came up behind him. Several peers had told him that younger investigators flinched when he showed up to teach them a thing or two, and for the life of him he couldn't fathom why. He hadn't ever been given a reason to be nasty (blunt, sure, but this job was not for the meek), and most of them had risen to the challenge and come out better for it.

The plane in question had survived his mishap, and the investigation itself was relatively clean and straightforward. Halfway through, Ryker didn't know quite what he was supposed to be overseeing; the IIC was clear-headed and thorough, paperwork was organized and comprehensive, and she left him with very little to pick at. She spent too much time chewing on some of the details, but finesse would come with experience. After a couple days picking around the impact site, they'd made it back to the strip in time for the airshow, which Ryker used as an opportune time to tap out. She had the rest of this in the bag.

Except that they had watched, then, as a tail slide when horribly wrong, and the Cessna doing it went down right in the middle of the longest runway. The resident ARFFs were on him in mere seconds, but even their fast response made little difference.

Killed immediately on impact. Preferable, considering the painful, fiery alternative.

Ryker had stuck around for another day; this was a crash at an airport with a casualty. There were a wide variety of involved parties, and as such the IIC requested a couple extra specialists. She had flailed only briefly, largely just shocked that her previous call had bumpered right up into the next one, but once she gathered her composure, she put her tires right on all her business. Again, after twelve hours she hadn't left him with any work, so he decided it would be more productive to put his attention elsewhere. He parted with just a few tips learned forcibly through experience.

Except that the longest airstrip was still down, barricaded from contamination to evidence for the purposes of investigation. Which was the only strip at this small local airport long enough for the large plane capable of bearing Ryker's bulk aloft. He'd had two options, then. Stick it out until the runway was cleared (this could take days), or drive to the next closest airport and catch a ride from there (which could take hours).

Ryker had never minded doing his own transportation anyways, as long as speed wasn't a factor. While fast for a heavy fire apparatus, civilian traffic passed him on a regular basis.

Still, there was something to be said for the air conditioning he had just left. His back was starting to heat, mindless of wind and white reflective paint. He could feel the hot black top even through his thick tires, distinct but not uncomfortable. It was to be expected, though. This area, and straight on into southern California was all scraggly desert (but the hell if he was going to drive all the way to Bakersfield for a flight). There were buttes and crags off to his left, the hills around which were populated with dry forests. A wild land firefighter's dream. Or nightmare.

After a couple minutes of driving, Ryker could see a small plume of smoke off to his left. It was a good few miles in front of him, and a light, fluffy grey. Brushfire, most likely. Hardly unusual, given the temperature. He paid it little mind; the municipal rigs would get on that shortly, if it was worth their attention. In a short time it had grown into something marginally more vigorous, enough for him to notice, but not enough to command more of his awareness. At least, not until the smoke began to turn black.  _That_ caught his attention. Any good firefighter could read smoke; grey or brown for organic combustibles, white if crews were putting water on it, and black if hydrocarbons were involved, such as fuel or plastic. A structure of some kind had been caught in the flames. Or worse.

Ryker frowned, but kept on his way. Far outside of his jurisdiction, and he had places to be.  _Not immediately,_  something rumbled from the back of his mind. Seriously, though, Ryker made a point at keeping out of other people's business. It tended to keep  _them_  out of  _his._  His tires stayed firmly on the interstate, eventually pulling even with the fire. About three quarters of a mile off the main road, as a plane flies, on the other side of a small hill. As he passed it, he could see small licks of orange flames. No sign of the cause of the black smoke, though, from around the hill. And, of course, the  _smoke._ Still, he had confidence in whatever local team took responsibility for incidents out here. They'd be on it in short order.

That fire, though, was growing. It still wasn't huge, but it wasn't getting any smaller. And he should probably stop watching it in his side views and keep an eye on where he was going. The last thing he needed was to run into a sedan out here. He jogged around a big rig, nodding as he passed.

_Slosh._

He still had a full tank. All three thousand gallons of it, never mind his foam load. It wasn't doing him any good out on the highway. And if he was looking to purge it anyways…

Ryker tapped his brakes, falling behind the rig he had just passed, then gunning his engine as he pulled in behind him. He leaned his tires into the very next ramp, Junction R-66. A rather abrupt exit from a freeway, but necessary, unless he wanted to turn around another five miles from here. The frontage road curved back under the interstate and out on the other side, where Ryker had three options: the freeway entrance back the way he came, a small country road to nowhere, or a small country road roughly in the direction he was trying to go. Only one of those choices was reasonable, and it had the benefit of being a marked thoroughfare; Historic Route 66 was well known enough that he could navigate his way back out if he had to.

He put power to his drive, kicked on his strobes, and took off down the winding road. He leaned his weight into the gentle curves, a remarkably refreshing change of pace from the straight drive that was I-40, especially when taken at speed. He reigned in his enthusiasm; this wasn't for fun, this was strictly business.  _Not_ your  _business._  He chuffed to himself. No, but it would be once he put water on it. That didn't calm the smugness in his psyche in the slightest, but it did shut it up. For now, at least.

He followed the billowing smoke as he went. As he dipped behind a hill, a plume of white steam swelled up from near the head of the fire. Hm, so the locals had beaten him here after all, if not by much. At the very least, he could unload his tanks before leaving. Rounding the curve of the hill, he came in clear view of the seat of the fire. It was busy scorching a hill of grass and brush. In the middle was an old house or barn, fully involved, and the clear source of the black smoke that had pricked his attention. Given that the engine on scene was giving it very little mind, Ryker assumed it had been determined to be unoccupied.

The local engine was a type one, in typical red livery (a _quint,_ if Ryker was going to be perfectly specific; rare in larger, denser departments, but common by necessity in rural communities). Older than Ryker himself, but still in good shape, despite being smaller than same-type engines nowadays. He was a good hundred feet or so up the hill, canopy nozzle trained firmly on a stretch of flame eating through the scraggly brush. Type ones, and quints by extension, did not do off-road well; they were built solely for tarmac, and were generally more top heavy than type threes, fours, fives, or even crash tenders. The rear-wheel drive wasn't helping them either. Nevertheless, firefighters were nothing if not adaptable, and comfort zones were frequently broken down in this line of work. The rig halfway up the hill was a testament; he pushed up through vegetation with little regard of his grade rating.

He was also the only one on scene. In the distance, down more towards the flats, Ryker noted a small town out in the desert. Probably his base of operations, as Ryker hadn't seen anything for miles that looked reasonable for housing an active engine. There was another vehicle on the road, an old Mercury in law enforcement livery. He turned in Ryker's direction as he approached, and the crash tender barked his siren in greeting. The sheriff gave him the briefest once over, cocking a brow before backing well out of Ryker's way. He suppressed a snort; had to appreciate that silent, first responder communication.

_You here to help?_

_Clearly._

_Then get to it._

And he did. The engine up the hill was well aware of his presence now, he was sure. Hadn't said a word yet, but he'd pulled up enough that Ryker had a clear shot to go further up the line without grinding through the thickest undergrowth. Unnecessary, given his clearance, but appreciated. He did wonder why he didn't press on instead, now that he knew he had backup, but Ryker didn't question it. He was rolling deep in someone else's jurisdiction, after all.

Ryker had to snuff every first impulse of  _put that thing out now!_  in order to use merely his own canopy nozzle. Unlike structure, fuel or crash fires, wildfires were a delicate dance of balancing your resources and getting the results you wanted. "Surround and drown" were generally poor tactics for brushfires unless you had more gallons of water than you had space burning. Ryker came with a full load, but with all three turrets going, he could blaze through even that in just a few minutes. However, if they were able to set up a wet perimeter and halt the fire's progress, they could then start soaking the interior. In the meantime, if it couldn't grow, it would eventually consume all its own fuel and die.

Not that there wasn't any urgency; the hills eventually gave way to that dry forest at the foot of the bluffs; if they didn't want a much more intimidating conflagration on their hands, they would need to put this out in a timely manner.

He put himself immediately parallel to the fire head, and angled his nozzle and opened the bale. He locked down the most unprofessional smile that came from hearing the wholly satisfying sound of water on fire, and well as the plumes of steam that resulted. He could feel the searing heat along his face and flank, and the thick tickle of smoke in his intakes, and he  _couldn't care less._  It had been a while since he was at the front of an active fire, instead of arriving after the flames were quenched or watching resident crews do the heavy work. It… soothed an itch he didn't know he still had. Hm, something to ponder at a later date.

Down the hill, Ryker could hear voices. Every so often, an exclamation would drift in over the crackle and hiss of flames. The town's citizens, he could safely assume, come to watch the blaze right outside their neighborhood. Now and then he could pick up a stern rumble—no wait, two separate voices—one of which surely belonged to the local sheriff. He couldn't place the other. May haps the town's mayor, if they had one.

Movement, out of the corner of his eye. A small blue forklift made a beeline for the red engine. The rugged terrain did not play nice at all with his small wheels, but he doggedly persisted. Ryker waited for the engine to get the lift clear, and active fire was no place for an untrained civilian, but the engine kept his mouth shut. It soon became apparent why: he headed straight for the engine's tailboard, and with a little reaching managed to grab a length of hose from his bed. Ah, made sense, as did why the rig let Ryker take the fire head; with his much larger tank, he could go for longer without needing a lead from a hydrant. Considering the locale, the nearest hydrant was probably closer to town. Ryker could only hope his partner had enough in his hose bed to reach that far. The forklift pulled several flakes, about three hundred feet's worth, and then picked up the coupling and took off down the road. He was hardly the more rugged sort of lift that frequently became firefighters, but there wasn't any time to give that much consideration. The typical municipal engine carried only about five hundred gallons in their tank; even by minding nozzle flow, without a hookup he'd run dry sooner rather than later.

"Sooner" crept up on them a lot faster than Ryker thought. He heard a frustrated wince from behind him, and he didn't have to look to know what was up; he could clearly hear the engine's pump, the baffles inside it grabbing more air than water. Ryker found himself missing his assistant. The extra pair of tines would come in extremely handy right this moment.

How fortuitous, then, that the little blue forklift made his way back to flake more hose from the engine's bed. That hydrant might be far as hell away, but they could make the red engine manage with a much closer, if smaller, source.

"Hey!"

The forklift stopped what he was doing, and frowned at Ryker, clearly not used to being barked at. The ARFF pushed it aside; fire lines were not the place to nurse people's feelings.

"Before you lay more line, hook him to my discharge; he can draw from my tank."

The forklift looked from the red engine to Ryker, who popped three hatches along his port flank. One shielded his discharge, the other contained a variety of adapters, and the last had one hundred-foot length of large diameter line. Possible affronted feelings or no, the forklift pushed up the hill to Ryker, grabbing the length of hose and unrolling it down the hill to the other engine. He pulled the other end to Ryker's discharge, and then stopped cold, looking at the coupling instead of attaching it. The ARFF could see his expression in his side view as he tilted the massive coupling over in his tines.

Ryker had Storz couplings, not threads, and his supply line was wider than what the older type one was equipped with. He set his jaw; while not looking forward to giving a step by step on how to attach his leads to his impromptu collaborator, it was going to be necessary if he wanted to pump water down the supply line.

Turns out, he didn't have to; despite having never seen a Storz before, the forklift clearly had a very high degree of mechanical aptitude, as well as being able to take a hint. He coupled the hose to Ryker's discharge, grabbed both a Storz-thread adapter and a reducer from the ARFF's compartment. Whether it was luck or an educated guess, Ryker couldn't fathom, but the reducer fit perfectly to the engine's proximal intake.

"Siamo pronti, andiamo!"

An ice-cold hell before Ryker understood the words, but he definitely recognized the tone. He opened his discharge, just mildly cognizant of the possibility of a water hammer. The engine downhill from him took the flood with no issues, and Ryker could feel the suction in his tanks as the engine's pump took what it needed from his reserves. Ryker himself began to draw off his foam tank. He didn't have any Class A foam on him, but the AR-AFFF would serve in a pinch. Once mixed and aerated, he'd be using less water as well. It still wouldn't last him long, he'd been down almost a third  _before_  he'd let the other firefighter tap his tank, and they were liable to blitz through the remainder in just a few minutes.

It was a great relief, then, when he heard the distinct sound of water surging through an empty line, snapping out kinks as it went. The draw off Ryker's tank halted abruptly, the red engine closing his starboard intake as water surged in from his port. He started pushing power to his pump, boosting pressure with the fresh draw of water from the hydrant. Ryker closed his discharge, cut his foam portioning and switched back to water; his Class B foam formed a barrier like it should, but its higher surface tension was not allowing it to soak the dry fuels as much as a more appropriate foam would. It was made for fuel fires, not dry brush.

He could feel a slight tug on the supply line, and then a click and a rush of dry air against his discharge as the coupling was removed. Good, glad that crisis was averted. He still had about seven hundred gallons; hopefully it would be enough to finish putting wet lines around the front of the blaze.

Then he felt the forklift put the coupling to his intake, and water surged up the line. Ryker looked back down the hill. The engine met his gaze and gave him a small smirk. Ryker could not, for the life of him, kill that  _not quite_  excited smile from earlier. They were that good, huh? All right, then. He opened his intakes and gave his tanks a moment to start to fill. Behind him, his colleague was flooding the area with water, and it didn't affect Ryker's supply in the least. They were getting good pressure from the hydrant, regardless of how out of the way this place was, and with the municipal engine boosting pressure Ryker had almost all the water he wanted. Enough to use three turrets at about half capacity, anyways.

He put himself square to the fire head, and opened all his turrets. This thing had burned long enough, and it was time to bring the rain.

* * *

Ryker sighed as he put his tires back on warm, firm asphalt for the first time in what felt like hours. Really, it was just a little over one hour, but after climbing through brush and then slogging through ashy mud as they drowned hotspots, he appreciated being back on a surface that didn't give under his weight. The resident engine had tapped him out with a quiet but heartfelt "thank you," and insisted on cleaning up any remaining coals himself. His town, his work. Ryker understood the sentiment. If he were still back in Sacramento…

The local sheriff approached him as he pulled his rearmost tires onto the roadway, giving him another once over.

"You aren't lookin' too worse for the wear."

"No, sir. Nothing I haven't handled before." He had a little dirt and smoke on his plating here and there, but no damage. He gave a clipped sigh. "I admit, it has been a while, though."

"It doesn't show."

"I've elected to maintain all my certifications, even if I no longer serve directly on the fire lines."

"Sounds… unnecessary."

"Maybe." Ryker wasn't going to get into why he held onto his credentials. His pride would rather nurse that in secret.

The sheriff gave a snort. Old cop wasn't going to pry.

"C'mon, son. We'll top ya off before you get back on your way."

It had been many,  _many_ years since someone had called him "son," even longer since they hadn't meant it derisively, but Ryker let the old interceptor have it.

"You needn't do that."

"Please, I may be old, but I ain't stupid. You ain't from anywhere near here, sure as you're the biggest, greenest thing to visit our town in quite a while. And you have the look of a man with other, busier places to be than here." And he started down the road towards the town, with no sign of stopping. Ryker felt it would be rude not to follow, despite his disinclination.

"If I'm really the largest vehicle around, then there is no reason to impose my fuel bill on someone else." Oh, he was thirsty as he'd ever been, but he had a job. A very well paying job. He didn't feel he should take for free what he could easily afford.

"It's not imposin' if we're offerin'." There was a pause, and the sheriff slowed marginally. "You gave Red quite a thrill. It's been a while since he's been able to tow the line while standing tire to tire with another of his sort. He's quiet and shy, but he was enjoying himself up there, sure as I have eyes."

Ryker's turn to snort. It supplanted the short laugh that would have come out instead.

"I understand that too." And then he remembered what dark hole his manners had apparently fallen into. "My apologies for my rudeness. My name is Ryker."

"Folks around here just call me Sheriff. Works just fine for me. You've already met Red, obviously."

"Of course." But at least now he had a name to go with the face. There was a yellow Fiat among the gaggle of cars up ahead, having a vigorous conversation with that small blue forklift that had hiked up the hill to help. There was a lot of tire gestures and tine waving. "And who is…?"

"Your volunteer assistant? Guido. Don't speak much English, but he understands it  _perfectly_ well. And, really, we understand him just fine as it is." They were approaching the small crowd of vehicles, which included one Hornet with a stare piercing enough to make Ryker sit up and take notice. Sheriff didn't bat an eye. "Hey Flo! Think you can hook this boy up?"

A crisp, mint-green Buick XP with probably some of the most impressive tailfins he'd ever seen on something that wasn't a plane slid out of the throng.

"Mmmhm, I sure can." She met Ryker's gaze after an appraisal of her own. "What do you take, hun'?"

The crash tender snuffed a sigh. The more people he met here, the less likely it became that they were going to let him go without seeing him off in the same condition he rode in.

"Diesel, if you please."

"Gotcha covered. We can top your fluids off, too. How big's your engine?"

Ryker was used to being around aircraft, which often had their engines held externally. As such, they didn't bat an eye about asking about anatomy that, for ground vehicles, was sometimes considered a mite bit personal. Still, it caught him rather off-guard.

"Ma'am, you don't need to—"

"Now sweetie..." and she leveled a look at him that told the ARFF that he  _really_  needed to stop fighting their generosity, because it wasn't going to get him anything but a headache.

"Sixteen liters, ma'am."

Her eyebrows rose, but she otherwise didn't comment.

"Does fifteen-w-forty work for you?"

"Please."

"Done." She pulled off ahead of them, towards a large, spacious station. Even so, Ryker was unsure if he would be able to fit under the awnings. He was… far taller than most vehicles had been around the time this station had been constructed. Inside, he idly considered how best to add this to his bill before they could take note.

"Don't even think about it." Sheriff gave a grunt.

"Beg pardon?"

"You're not paying for a damned thing. Consider it our thanks."

"I don't do this job for the thanks."

The interceptor gave him a pointed stare.

"Neither do I, but you can't pretend it don't feel good sometimes."

Ryker would pretend to his heart's content, thank you very much. He was allowed that one noble delusion.

In the back of the station, the Buick with the fins was not whispering at all to a blue Porsche.

" _Sixteen_ liters!? I've never… I mean, other than big trucks!"

"Flo, he practically  _is_  a big truck."

"You don't hafta tell me, honey! Wow, you can hear him rumble in from clear outside of town! They build them  _big_  where he comes from."

"And you know what they don't do? Build them  _deaf_."

Ryker dutifully pretended that he hadn't heard anything, and willed himself to block out the rest. Would save everyone some embarrassment.

And he didn't have any time for embarrassment.

It would dampen his right good mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I promised someone that I would find a way to put Red in here in some capacity. I couldn't resist; Red is a fifteen-ton sweetheart and I adore him.
> 
> Writing the first part of this chapter required all manner of research for me. In our world, the NTSB has no teeth. They are a separate branch of the government from the FAA, and cannot enforce any findings they have regarding vehicle crashes and accidents. The TMST, however, has been clearly shown to have full control over investigation and enforcement, as well as regulations. As such, I'm just treating them as operating as a separate agency from the FAA, but still with big government teeth. Which is _terrifying_ if you're on the wrong end of a some paperwork.
> 
> Quint: A special type of rig, which combines the NFPA requirements for an engine with the requirements for a truck. Red, and other quints by association, is the only rig in all of WoC that I will accept people refer to as either an engine or a truck, because he is literally both. Fire engines and fire trucks are not the same, and should not be used interchangeably.
> 
> Also, about Red's tank size: I don't know who did the research for Pulaski and gave him a water tank that holds 2k gallons, but for a type 1 engine, that is ridiculous. 400-500 gallons is the current standard. Two thousand? Nope. I wonder if that's just the spec they decided to throw out the window and go with their own.
> 
> Typos. I'm hunting them. Rawr.


	25. War Stories - Maru & Blade II

Smoker took a slow sip off of his coffee. A nice, easy afternoon, with moderate temperatures and light winds. And no calls. Given that the last week had been a non-stop dance to squash a rash of grassfires born from the tail end of a dry lightning storm, a break was welcomed. It would never last, but they might be able to milk a couple days of relaxation out of it.

And then there came the cacophony of yelling from the main hangar; given the easy moods that had infected just about everyone on base, it was jarringly out of place. He couldn't make out what exactly was said, but he knew the participants; there was no mistaking Maru's husky shout. The other voice was new enough to only be one other person.

They had taken in the protégé of one of GT's old friends. A powerfully built mid-class helicopter, Blade had already been trained; the chief had agreed to take him at Piston Peak to get him some experience. And mayhaps to keep him. He had already shown himself to be an incredibly hard worker and a fast learner; he found comfort in structure and consistency, which gave him good marks with all officers on base (even Smoker had to admit it was damned refreshing). He was otherwise quiet, and tended to keep his own company. To each their own, he supposed, but there was something…palpable around him. Smoker wouldn't quite call it a chill, but Blade's eyes had something hard and electric that was generally seen only in weathered elders, experienced soldiers, and seasoned first responders. Not young studs fresh out of Hollywood.

Now  _that_ had been an eventful day. Their new helitanker was  _the_ Blade Ranger? Who'd evaporated from the public eye a couple years prior after the abrupt end of his skyrocketing career? Needless to say, speculation on his performance and personality had run rampant amongst all inhabitants. Several had set his performance bar spectacularly low; no way a soft boy from LA's red carpets was going to last a month out here, never mind an entire season (insert a heck of a lot of 'tv season' jokes here). GT had maintained his typical skepticism, but he held the old fire rig who had overseen Blade's conditioning in high esteem, and with that behind him had agreed to accept him. Nevertheless, GT had been hounding the kid with his typical verbal stress-tests. To date, Blade hadn't even flinched. Hard-willed, that one. He was gonna go places in this career, Smoker was sure.

At least, Smoker  _had_ been sure.

GT didn't have a problem with heated emotions; indeed, he was probably the biggest offender, and could go from amiable to hostile in the time it took to spit on an ant. He had teeth, and everyone knew it. The line was drawn, instead, at turning an argument into a knock-down drag-out fight. He'd let people scream at each other all day (eh, maybe thirty minutes to an hour, before the headache set in), but he'd put the right good kibosh on a yard scrap.

Speaking of, whatever was happening inside the main hangar had been abruptly taken outside to the apron. And by "abruptly," Smoker meant that Maru can flying out of the doorway. Launched out of the doorway, really. He landed hard on his side, rolled a couple times, and finally stopped when he hit the wall of the storage hangers near the jumpers' building. Oof, that was going to leave a dent or three. And no small amount of scratches. Smoker made to set down his coffee and check to see how hard his brain had been rattled, but Maru picked himself up with a painful wince that swiftly morphed into a wrathful glower that would put to shame all but the most vengeful people. He snarled, and pulled a very large, very heavy looking cast iron wrench from his tool holster.

And hardly a moment too soon. His dance partner came barreling out of the hangar after him, clearly intent on making the tug's escape very difficult. And painful. Smoker frowned; this kid was… enraged. He'd call it such, because he had been worked into such a frothing fury that he had dropped his cool, collected demeanor in favor of rolling Maru into the asphalt. His eyes were flashing, and he didn't have a care for anyone but the stout purple tug he'd just knocked into a building. That chill he'd been carrying? It was now a raging blizzard, forming razor-edged ice as it went. If looks could kill, Maru would've been dead before he'd hit the wall. But since Maru wasn't dead, and was making a dangerous growl of his own, it would have to be done… more directly.

Smoker thought long and hard about stepping in to stop this right now, but he did not feel like getting bitten today. No siree. And really, they weren't going to kill each other. Probably.

Blade lunged, clearly not finished making his point all over the tug's face. Had to hand it to the little punk, though; facing down a hefty chopper several times his size that was coming for him as a bearcat comes for deere, and he didn't even flinch. Instead he actually met Blade partway, ducking low and jogging aside to leave Blade's teeth snapping at nothing. Blade had some brute strength behind him, but Maru was infinitely more stable and maneuverable on the ground. He snapped up the tine holding the wrench, which connected with the tip of Blade's nose. Painful, for sure, but the Agusta just blinked and shook it off. The weight of the wrench took Maru's swing wide, and with the tug now close off the side of his prow, Blade adjusted his facing and pounced.

Maru was not able to adjust from the momentum of his swing fast enough, and the big chopper bowled him over, pinning him under part of his bulk. With his opponent now with nowhere to go, Blade sunk his teeth into Maru's helm and back, leaving vicious, deep dents and scratches in the purple plating. His nose gear was pressed to Maru's side, keeping him down to take his beating. That was probably as painful as anything; Blade was big enough to use just his weight as a weapon.

However, he was hardly the only brute on this base; Piston Peak Air Attack had their share of ogres, and the other side of the airstrip was starting to stir. Marvin and Tracey stuck their heads out of their respective spaces, the latter with what was most probably a string of inventive curses, and the former with an exasperated frown. Both shot a look down the airstrip to a pair of much larger hangars; Cabbie was hard to rile in any really meaningful way, but Theodor was well into his afternoon nap. If it wasn't an emergency or covered in sugar, any issue had better wait until he was back up, or  _else._ If they didn't want a particularly nasty fight on their hands, they had best shut the boys up before the giant roused. To this end, Marvin started briskly across the airstrip, spooling his engines as he went.

Unfortunately for the kids, he wasn't fast enough. The hangar door that was thrown open ended up not being Theo's at all. Instead, Charlie rolled out of the chief's hangar, followed shortly by the High Lord Fire-Breathing Dragon himself. GT eyed Marvin and Tracey, before catching the violent tussle over in the commons. Even from this distance, Smoker could see his face darken, and he spat out a lot of words that seemed to be full of the letters 'f' and 'u'. Also some 'c's and 'k's. No matter the distance, the loader was sure he'd be hearing all kinds of words up close, loudly, and very,  _very_ soon. The Boeing-Vertol didn't bother starting his engines at all, instead folding his front rotors back out of the way before charging straight across the taxiways, grass and dirt be damned. It was an impressive display; most choppers descended from military stock (including even civilian Chinooks) could fold their rotors for tight spaces, but outside of the barracks and ship quarters it was often a sign that a helicopter meant to get down in some capacity. It was typically a "get the hell out of my way, because I will go over or through you" type of body language, and GT could use it to spectacular effect. Up in the tower, Mike was watching the apocalypse come with a dry smirk, leaning over to queue the PA.

" _Everyone, hold onto your afts_."

Not that either combatant took any notice. Blade was still dominating this fight, but Maru was a scrappy brat from the streets, and stubborn as hell. He managed to grip the wrench in his other tine and swing it up hard, which connected quite solidly with the glass panels behind Blade's eyes. Even at the distance the track loader was at, the sound of cracking glass was audible.  _That_ made Smoker wince loudly, and Blade reeled. Being clocked in the ears was no fun, especially not with a cast iron wrench. Whether it was luck or a calculated blow was anybody's guess, but it had the desired effect; Blade instinctually recoiled just enough to let Maru slip out and put a little space between them. Blade had to shake his head a couple times. Had his bell rung good, apparently, as his vision appeared unfocused, and he twirled his rotors to keep his balance. It didn't last, and Blade eventually rounded back on Maru with a snarl and bared teeth. Maru had managed to place a good hundred feet between himself and the Agusta, and when Blade charged again he chucked the wrench hard in his direction. The tug had some pretty good aim, and Smoker could only imagine what would be damaged when it landed.

And oh, did it ever connect. With GT's canopy. It made a loud thunk as it bounced off his white hull, and if there wasn't a dent left behind it would be a miracle.

Maru looked aptly mortified at finding that Chief Vortex had just stuck his massive head right in between their fight, and taken the painful blow meant entirely for a different red and while helicopter. He flinched back and cringed when Vortex's lip curled, and he sent Maru a devastating glare punctuated with a hiss that could wither an entire redwood forest. The boy shrank into the tarmac, suitably cowed.

On GT's other side, Blade had eyes only for the offending tug, and jogged to move around the Boeing to continue his charge. Chief Vortex wasn't having any of it, and he caught Blade with a sharp bite right in the flank. That got the kid's attention and he rounded on the older helo with a snarl. Not good. GT might look harshly on firefighters who started fights with their teammates, but if one wanted to rumble, he'd sure as hell finish it.

Blade stiffened as if to lunge again, and Vortex wasn't going to let him have it. He roared and bulled straight into Blade's side, his broad prow slamming hard against his flank hatches. Blade wobbled on his gear and gave ground. The chief had about two solid tons on the younger chopper, and from the look on Blade's face, it was a harsh adjustment from fighting a forklift a quarter his size to fending off a male Chinook with more girth than he had. Whether it was that last hit or his exhaustion setting it didn't matter, but once he put a little distance between himself and the Boeing he settled a little. He now had his tail to Smoker, though, so his expression couldn't be read. At least, not by him. GT, however, finally let his piercing stare drift a little, before he turned enough to look squarely at both kids. If he could give a name to GT's expression right now, it would be whatever grade of furious caused distant stars to explode. Smoker put his coffee to his lips. Here it comes…

"WHAT THE ACTUAL  _FUCK!?_ "

Maru had his gaze firmly on the ground, and Smoker could see Blade's rotors twitch.

"Seriously, what the hell is wrong with both of you!? We catch a breather for the first time in weeks, and you two dipsticks' response to some downtime is to start taking pieces off of each other? If you  _children_ feel like having your little spat, I'm sure I can drop you both off at a playground and you can continue this there. Don't you dare think about coming back to my base, though. I have my own kids; I don't need to be raising you guys, too." He took a moment to spit on the ground. "I don't have time for this slag. Charlie doesn't have time for this slag, which is unfortunate, because he's going to have to be the one to fix it."

Maru seemed to have gained a little courage, and opened his mouth.

"Don't you even fucking dare." And Maru shut up with a click. "You, I expected better from you. You might be a smart-mouthed city brat, but you're a clever brat who's learned how to work. I was hoping you'd also learned how to not clobber your teammates with your tools when you get a little sand up your tailpipe." An angry snort. "Disappointing.  _Extremely_ damned disappointing."

Smoker felt a little bad for him. Maru had worked really damned hard to get where he was; GT had been rougher than usual with him when Charlie brought him on almost four years ago. And yet, he'd busted his bumper enough to earn both the tandem-copter's respect, and an offer at a permanent spot. He'd been showing up diligently ever since, and each year he brought more credentials with him that he'd earned in the off-season. He was well on his way to being a solid mechanic in his own right. Hearing Chief Vortex's bitter admonishment looked to be particularly painful for him.

GT let him stew in his discomfort before he shifted his attention to Blade, who squirmed just slightly on his suspension.

"I am  _so close_  to letting you go, you have no idea. The only reason I'm not just cutting you loose if because you're new so I guess I really shouldn't expect any better yet, and because Mayday asked me to take you in. I like Mayday, but that doesn't mean I like you. Don't think you've got more protection behind his reputation than you actually do, because I will ship your sorry aft back to him in the same time it takes a rock to fall off a cliff. You wanna stay up here the rest of the season? I had better see some serious hustle out of you. You had better be awake before me, and in bed after me, so help your Maker."

Vortex stopped to catch his breath, sucking a slow breath in through his teeth and blowing it back out from his vents. Behind him, Marvin and Tracey had taken up places on either side of Charlie, all three at a safe distance from GT's wrath. Hell if he knew where the rest of the jump team was. Cabbie was just starting to amble over. Thankfully, there was no sign of Theodor.

"Consider both of you on the most tenuous probation you can imagine. Do not give me another reason to find fault with you, or it will be  _nasty._ " His gaze shifted between both of them for a minute. "For the next damned month, you'll both have everyone else's chores. I don't care if we're working a fire from sunup to sundown, you will get everything done, dinner included." Neither tug nor helicopter dared to even wince. "In addition, you two are going to clean my base, top to bottom. And you can't just soak it with a hose, either. I want all this slag scrubbed. The hangars, inside and out, the aprons, the taxiways, I should be able pick a surface of my choosing and be able to eat off of it. If you two aren't doing chores or workin', you should be scrubbing." If they objected to the extra punishment, both of them were wise enough to keep quiet about it. "Am I really fucking clear, or am I really fucking clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Yes, sir!"

Chief Vortex gave another disgusted snort.

"Get to it, then. Lucky you, everyone else did their chores today. I better see you both start scrubbing. After he checks you idiots for any permanent damage you may have caused each other, I'd see Charlie for brushes, if I were you." His voice dropped then, straight to the ninth level of hell. "And if you two even so much as spit in each other's direction, I am hurling you both off Canopy Dome myself, to hell with the consequences."

Blade and Maru exchanged looks that could be called venomous if you were feeling polite, but otherwise parted without incident.

Smoker relaxed back into his treads, downing the last of his (now cold) coffee. Well, excitement over, he supposed. And nobody died, which was always a plus. Still, the kids were on punishment for the next month straight. It remained to be seen if their tempers could stand the strain.

* * *

"You're a damned fool."

Charlie had been grumbling errantly to him as Maru sat for repairs. A few he could have done himself, but the majority of the damage was done where he could neither see nor reach. Damned choppers who fought with their damned  _teeth…_

"What the hell did you do in there?" Charlie had finished hammering out the large number of dents in Maru's plating, and was assembling his sander. Turns out, that initial toss from Blade had knocked a few hydraulic lines loose, which Maru had only noticed when he'd found himself in a slowly growing pool of fluid. Hmph, no real harm, except that it had  _hurt_ and made him  _spitting mad._

"I didn't do anything."

"The  _hell_  you didn't."

"It was not my fault!"

"I didn't ask if it was your fault! I asked what you did!"

It took all of Maru's willpower to not snarl.

"What is the damned difference!?"

"If you don't know, then you really are acting a fool." Charlie gave him a stare before going back over his canopy with the sander. Maru grit his teeth through it; he'd pressed for Charlie to just paint over the repairs, but the older tug had insisted that he remove the flakes and abrasions first. Claimed it got better results (he was right, really, but it didn't feel comfortable having his skin scoured). Charlie was quiet for a short while.

"You figure it out yet?"

"Figure out  _what_?" And he said it with more vitriol than the old man deserved.

"Dammit, boy," and Charlie stopped what he was doing to come around and look Maru dead in the face. "The difference is whether you're man enough to admit your mistakes. It takes two to have a fight, kid, unless you're crazy or  _really_ full of yourself. It most certainly was not  _all_ your fault, he had to make the decision to join you in your stupidity, but you clearly did something to contribute.  _What was it?_ "

"Nothing! I did nothing! He just attacked me!"

Charlie huffed and shook his head but said nothing.

Maru crossed his tines and glared at the floor. It felt like a childish gesture, but it fed his anger, which he was enjoying doing right now.

Because he had the right to be angry, after all. Damned arrogant aircraft had the nerve to give him the old nosetoss just for asking some questions.

_Why are you so chilly all the time?_

_What crawled up your exhaust and died?_

_What, in your silver spoon show star life, could have happened to you to make you so_ bitter  _all day long?_

 _Nothing in_ your  _past could possibly be_ that  _bad._

Maru's brow twitched. It was right about there that the conversation had started taking a turn for the worst. Blade had bristled, and inside, Maru had grinned. Finally, a reaction, and so he kept pushing. Digging, deeper, into the soft, pampered actor who'd managed to come out here and be so damned perfect, he knew all the rules, and GT didn't seem to give him  _nearly_ as much grief as he'd given Maru when he was new, and it wasn't fair. It wasn't  _fair_ that he had brought that out with him, that softness, and maybe Maru was projecting but the more he thought about it the more angry and bitter and  _jealous_ he felt. Fame didn't come out here. Why the park, when he could have stayed in Hollywood with its perpetually clean carpets and gold award trophies and private parties and ludicrous acting contracts, the exact opposite of anything Maru had ever experience in his life. He'd been at least half-raised by the guys down on the corner who had  _no business_ raising anyone's children. And he'd learned quick to grow a tough exterior, and not let a slight come unanswered, and to bluff if you were scared, and if someone was asking for it you gave it to them, hard, because that what they deserved for taking your friends from you, all because someone had gotten their business stepped on.

_Because you, movie star, haven't ever seen someone die in real life, have you?_

Maru's breath hitched. And then he'd been airborne. He could remember now, clearly, like it had been in slow motion. Blade's eyes had flashed, pupils blowing out in an absolute rage, and he'd swept his head to the side, and sent Maru on a ride. He frowned. There was something there, then. He'd finally brushed up against something sensitive, and if it was anything like the wounds Maru still nursed down in his own soul, then the chopper had reflex reactions to having those agitated. Explosive reactions.

Maru chewed his lip. Well. When considering that, maybe he did do… something. He snapped out of his brooding when he felt Charlie staring at him. Which sounded odd, but it had become one of those presences that Maru could just feel out.

"What're you thinkin' about so hard?"

Many things.

"I asked questions."

Charlie cocked a brow.

"Questions?"

"What I did. I asked questions."

"What kind of questions?" Old tug gave him a rather pointed look. "I swear, if any of those began with 'Yo mama…'"

"No, none of that." Maru made a face. "Not that he would find anything funny in that. Boring slagger."

"His sense of humor ain't really any of your business."

"It's hard to feel like a teammate to someone who doesn't  _smile ever._ "

"So? He's probably got his reasons. Did Theo or GT ever smile at you when you were new?"

"No, but they had a good time with everyone else on base, so I knew they could be some fun." His frown deepened. "But this guy…"

"Just leave it." Charlie had set his sander aside (thank Chrysler), and was pulling out his supply of paint. "Clearly, he doesn't want to talk about it with you. Or anyone, probably. Heck, it may just be his personality." Maru snorted. "Don't even give me that, brat. We've all got reasons who make us who we are. I've got mine, GT's got his, heaven  _knows_ Theo and Cabbie have theirs, not that we're going to ask." He looked Maru right in the eye. "And you've got yours."

Did he ever. Maru stubbornly held Charlie's gaze before finding something in the repair bay to glare at. The mechanic was so damned right it hurt. He didn't like it; he admired it, but being on the receiving end wasn't all that fun.

Charlie had gone back to assembling his paint sprayer.

"He's still new, Maru. Whatever he's holding, it's still raw. Stop poking it." He adjusted the nozzle idly. "In the same vein, one of you should decide to be the bigger man. You two have a month to impress GT into not cutting you from the roster, and trust me, he is all over both of you with a microscope."

"What do you mean by that?" The first part. He knew he was back on GT's slag list.

"You know damn well what it means."

"I'm not apologizing for him  _biting me in the face._ "

Charlie sighed.

"Have it your way, Maru. But one of you is going to have to step up to the plate. You can't stubborn your way through this one, chief'll see to that. You'll feel a lot better having a partner at your aft instead of a rival."

Maru gave a soft huff. No way.

Not in a million years.

* * *

Maru had started with the repair bay. Might as well, since he was already there.

If there was one thing Charlie always seemed to have an excess of, it was rags and brushes. And considering what his first season had been like, he was used to cleaning the place. It was calming and familiar, in its own way. By the time he had finished scouring the inside, floors, walls, shelves and all, it was getting on towards eight o'clock. There had been a break in the middle for dinner (Maru had to smother the grin that grew watching Blade get dragged in by Theodor; he remembered when that was him, trying to work through meals. Not on Theo's watch). If the others noticed Maru's noticeably more subdued nature, they didn't say it, although the smokejumpers all looked like they wanted to ask  _a lot_ of pointed questions. GT and Charlie carried on as they always did, which meant that most of dinner was a collage of "your face" and "I am rubber, you are glue" jokes, especially when they pulled in Smoker and Tracey. Maru wanted to have friends like this, one day; people he had known long enough, and cared about enough, that he could make fun of them and make it sound like one long stream of affection. He liked this kind of friendship. Not sappy, not clingy, and funny as hell.

One day, maybe.

He idly eyed the med bay exterior as he left. Hm, that would have to keep until tomorrow; he didn't feel like being up on the scissor lift late into the night brushing the outside of this thing in the dark. He moved to the control tower. Nice and small, the inside of that was done in just a few minutes. Well, it was only about eight-fifteen. Maybe he'd do the interior walls of the main hangar; that place was gonna take up most of tomorrow anyways, especially the outside and roof. He sighed. The lift was not gonna be tall enough for the top of the place. He'd have to get creative.

He put his brushes and water on the lift and pushed that sucker out from the garage to the main hangar. First order of business was going to take the stuff carefully off the walls. Wouldn't due to get any of that wet and damaged, GT would  _kill_ —what the…

He could hear something inside. Sounded like scrubbing. Vigorously. He had to nail down a caustic stream of cursing when he got close enough to see inside. Of all the  _worst timing…_

Blade was already in here, hard at work on the floors. He had the handle of a larger brush in his teeth, in what looked to be a frustration-induced vice-grip. He was brushing determinedly at a particularly stubborn spot on the floor when he looked up.

To say the crossing of gazes was uncomfortable was the understatement of this millennium. Maru knew he was the last person Blade wanted to see, other than maybe Satan, and the feeling was so mutual Maru couldn't even form words. He was half tempted to turn around and find another place to clean, but under this guy's frosty glare that would seem a heck of a lot like running like a coward, and Maru wouldn't give the red chopper the pleasure. Besides, it would have to be done eventually anyways, might as well get on with it.

He tried his best to wipe the scowl off his face as he pushed the lift to a corner, grabbed an empty cardboard box, and began carefully removing the posters, maps and other things pinned and hung on the walls. He only felt the eyes boring into his back for a few minutes, and a quick glance in a reflective surface confirmed that Blade had turned to face away from him, still vigorously scrubbing away.

Maru swallowed a growl. He did not want to apologize to this crankshaft. He wouldn't. It felt way too much like a surrender, and the bright crimson aft-for-brains did not deserve it. Just the thought, though, caused Charlie's voice to swiftly become the annoying phantom of his conscience.  _Be a man about it._ He was a man; he was twenty-two, he had an education, and he had a job (at least during the summer), which was more than could be said for much of his family. He'd cut ties to his old life; his old friends didn't feel so much like friends anymore anyways. The ones that were still around, anyhow. Some had fallen to the fuzz. A few were scrap.

 _So why did he toss you out the door?_ Hell, Charlie was irritating even while nowhere nearby. He was across the base, having a meeting with GT and Marvin. About something boring, like finances. Still, it was hard to ignore. Even Imagination Charlie was  _right all the time!_

He tossed me because I poked something important.

_The "something" you poked has meaning for you, too._

Yeah, I guess, but I didn't ever have an urge to attack people for it!

_And yet you clobbered him in the head with a wrench._

He pinned me to the ground and bit me!

_If the roles were reversed, and you were four times his size, would you have done any different?_

Yes! Probably.

_Huh._

Hell, just shut up!

_Then man up, kid._

I am!

 _No, you're sitting here talking to yourself, trying_ not  _to talk to him._

No, I—gah!

Maru did snarl then, and punch the wall hard. A couple sheets pinned loosely to some corkboard fluttered to the floor. Maru regarded it idly. Man, his tine hurt now. Imagination Charlie was silent. Oh, sweet relief—

"Is it possible for you to have your tantrum without getting stuff all over my freshly cleaned floors?"

And just like that, Maru could feel his anger start rising again.

"Is it possible for you to be any more condescending?"

"I'm not, you're just an aft."

"Well, this aft has just scrubbed the inside of two buildings, so spare me."

"I'll spare you when you pick that stuff off my floor."

"It's not your floor. And I'll pick it up when I get over there, thanks."

"Which, if you stop to slap a wall every few minutes, is going to take you slagging forever."

Maru spun around and snarled.

"Do you have a damned point? I'm sure you've got a stain to mop up somewhere, why are you wasting time arguing with me?"

Blade turned square to him, brush totally forgotten.

"Because  _you_ are wasting time. You've been staring at one spot for at least five minutes. Unlike you, I can't afford to ride someone's favoritism into a pardon from the chief. I have a base to clean. For a  _month._ "

"I was there!  _I_ have a base to clean for a month! And you're one to talk, everyone knew who  _you_ were before you got here! Favoritism my bumper."

A snort.

"He was more lenient with you."

"No, he wasn't. I'm just not new enough to be fun to harass anymore."

"Could have fooled me."

"For someone who wants to whine about my lack of work, you sure haven't been doing any scrubbing while talking to me."

"I don't have the benefit of extra limbs, thank you."

"And I don't have the benefit of having four tons to just about crush somebody with."

"Sure didn't stop you from joining me."

"Join you… I was defending myself!"

"Is it still defense when you had spent the first minutes prior verbally assaulting me?"

"What part of that was an attack?"

"The part where your mouth was moving!"

Maru's only regret now was punching the wall instead of Blade's face.

"At least I don't have any violent tendencies when being asked questions!" Maru stopped to catch his breath, and lowered his voice. GT had great ears, and he was sure if this argument got any more heated, they'd catch hell. Yeah, probably better that he  _didn't_ punch Blade's face. "What about that made you so pissy, anyways?"

"Do  _not…_ " Blade's face darkened considerably and something in Maru's core warned him away from this path. He'd already tested it, and it was not to be done again. He brushed the feeling aside.

"I wanna know!"

"Don't even go there. Not ever. My past is  _mine,_  and it will  _stay that way._ "

Maru growled, but turned back to the wall. Stubborn chopper. But he knew, somehow, that the Agusta had seen something. Probably. The possibility of seeing someone's death had triggered him so precipitously that there had to be  _something there._  Maru wanted to know what it was. Even if it got him jumped again.

"Do you know someone that died?"

" _What did I_ just—!"

"Because I do."

Blade was still giving a furious glare, but he shut his mouth slowly.

"I have. It's what happens when you run with other kids who are into all sorts of things that look cool, and look like freedom, and they give you a brand and call you family. But it's not. Not really, and you're all destined to end up in jail or in the ground." Maru didn't know why, but he couldn't stop. The gates were open, and he couldn't stop. The words were there, and they continued unabated. And for this jerk? Mercy, please. "But you want it, so bad, because maybe they feel more like family that the ones you have at home. Which might not always feel like home. But that's alright; with the right words, and the right… 'tools,' you can make all kinds of family on the streets. All kinds of enemies, too."

Blade was still frowning, but at least he didn't look like he was going to haul off and pummel Maru again.

"I was lucky. Right day, right time, right truancy officer to not take any of my slag. And for some reason, a grouchy, irritating old mechanic who believed in me.  _I_  hardly believed in me. No idea why he did." Maru had to get away from that topic. Quickly, before something else happened and he embarrassed himself. "So then you show up, and you're sullen and bitter and not any fun to be around, and I want to know why. Some of the old guys have reasons. The war birds; they've seen some slag, you gotta know it. But you? Fresh out of the silver screen. What could have happened in that gold, perfect place to make you think you can mope about your life?"

Blade bristled, rotors stiffening.

"You think my life is perfect?  _My_ life? I wasn't handed any of that! I did it myself. Just me. Chrysler knows my parents didn't help."

"Please, you'll hafta try harder than that. Everyone here has worked hard at  _something._ "

"'Try?' I'm ' _trying_ ' to get you off my back!"

"And I'm trying to find out why you slapped me out of a building!"

"It's none of your business!"

"It is when it injures me!"

"No, it is  _not!_ "

"Tell that to my canopy! You could have killed me, dammit! Actually killed, not like a damned set!"

"I  _know_  the difference!"

"Do you? Really? Can you tell what's real in that world of make up and effects, where people die every day and then jump back up as soon as the director yells 'Cut?' Where the dead are never really?"

" _Not when he does his own stunts!_ "

The outburst caught Maru by surprise, and his next retort found it had nowhere to go.

"Not when he always does…  _did,_ his own stunts." Blade's eyes burned, both in rage, and something else. He'd seen it in all the people on this base, to some degree. If he had the courage to look in the mirror and be completely honest, it was probably in himself, too. But in Blade…

It was raw. And fresh. And it ran deep enough to have completely reshaped him.

"Do you read the newspapers? Or tabloids? No, I didn't think so. You don't look like the type. Others on base do, there's always someone everywhere I go. It's no secret, my co-star got himself killed. A take done wrong, a dangerous stunt mingled with a freak accident. You know what they don't tell you? How many people are on a set. Even if it isn't your take, other actors are there. I was there. When he went wide, too wide, too fast on the downslope to slow in time, I was there first. And I couldn't do a  _damned thing._  Because they don't teach you first aid in a place where no one dies for real." Blade met his gaze, and Maru felt that if there was ever a time to keep his mouth shut, right now was perfect. "Not a thing. My best friend. Poof! In an instant and a ball of fire that shattered windows a hundred feet away. The firefighters tried, they really did. And I was mad and jealous, that these strangers could attempt to do more for my friend than I ever could. Right when he needed me most. I wanted that. I wanted that  _so bad._ So I left that place, you can't look at a fake mockery when you've finally gotten a look at real life, and I got what I wanted. That soft, weak thing that couldn't help his own friend, couldn't help  _anyone,_  he's gone. He died on that set, with his buddy. Me though? That will  _never_ be me. Never again."

Maru sat quietly, still searching Blade's face. The Agusta stared right back, eyes still steely, until he sighed, and realized that he'd just spilled his business all over the main hangar. And to the person on base he liked the least.

"Damn, where the hell did all that come from? Whatever you did to me, you little bastard, I hate it. And I hate you."

Maru sneered. It didn't feel nearly as real as it looked.

"Good, I hate you too. I had no intention of telling you anything about me, and yet I did. So now we're even."

"So we are."

They sat there idly for a moment, still stiff and on edge, but some of the tension had sloughed away. The were both much more exposed than they would like, and were aware that they had given their deepest grievances away to someone they didn't trust as far as they could throw them (which, given earlier events, was a  _lot_  farther for Blade than for Maru). Eventually, Blade snorted and went back to scrubbing the floors, intent on ignoring the forklift entirely. Maru watched for just a moment longer before continuing, slowly, to take down items from the walls. And pick up the ones from the floor. Because he'd promised.

It was hard to work fast and think hard at the same time. He was frustrated, for different reasons. No matter how hard he hung on stubbornly to his anger, and his hate, they apparently had other places to be, because they were ebbing out of him much faster than he would have liked. He tried to nurse it, hold it in, let him fuel him because that bastard bit him, dammit. Still, he couldn't quite dredge anything up. How irritating.

Eventually, Blade picked up his brush and moved to a new quadrant of the floor. When he did, Maru noticed that his movement was… off, somehow. Like he was favoring one side over the other. Nothing seemed wrong with his suspension, and the panel that Maru had cracked was repaired, but something else was clearly causing the helitanker some discomfort.

Maru set down the framed picture in his forks, and unholstered a couple tools.

"Pop this hatch for me."

Blade blinked hard.

"What?"

"The hatch closest to me. Pop it."

He frowned, and turned to deliberately place that flank further from Maru.

"No. Why?"

"Because something in there is hurting you."

"No it isn't."

"Liar. You took GT's charge full on. Charlie fixed the class panel in front of it, but not your port cargo hatch. Why?"

"I swear, you are the nosiest person I have ever met. When do you stop?"

"When you become boring. Now open up."

"No."

"Really, afthat? I'm going to fix it, dammit, since you didn't want to go to Charlie."

"So why would I want to go to you instead of your far more competent and experienced boss?"

"Because if you guys head out tomorrow, and it turns out you're working through an injury that is an easy fix that you won't get looked at out of stubbornness, GT's going to have a  _fit._ " And a fit was the last thing GT needed to have right now. There would be corpses. Probably theirs.

Blade shot him a glare, which did not abate in the slightest as his port hatch slid open. Slowly, whether out of reluctance or pain or both Maru didn't know, but he'd find out soon enough.

"I'd really rather be trying to finish this floor before tomorrow morning, I'll have you know," he grumbled as the tug started to inspect his hatch hardware.

"Yeah? Well, now you won't be hurting while you do it. I don't know about you, but I don't like pain for no good reason."

"Smartaft."

"Douchenozzle"

"Chrysler, I hate you."

"Yeah yeah, we've been through this already."

Blade 'hmphed', but sat quietly while Maru poked around. Some of the rubber seal around his hatch was loose, but nothing that should really… ah-ha, there. The hinges of his hatch doors had been knocked slightly out of alignment. Not enough to break anything, but certainly not comfortable. Nothing he couldn't jostle back into place.

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

Blade didn't move, and didn't say anything else, for a long time. Maru eventually heard him blow a long sigh out his vents.

"Well. That's different."

"Why?"

"It's just…"

" _What?_  'It's just'  _what_?" Honestly, it was hard as hell to choke those words out, to admit he was wrong right to Blade's face, and this guy didn't even take it seriously.

"Hn, didn't really expect you to be, I guess." Another pause. "Me too."

And his ire subsided again as quickly as it came. Maru felt he needed a drink or ten. Might make his emotions pick just one representative tonight and stick with it. Certainly might make him make him less tired. He didn't mind too much, though. The exhaustion filled the void that the tension had left behind.

He was working on the second hinge when Blade gave an irritated growl.

"Hell, are you done yet? If I look at this brush any more, I'm going to blow a fuse."

"Don't get your upholstery in a bunch, damn. And you better get used to that brush; we've only been on punishment for less than twelve hours."

"Oh gee, thank you for reminding me that we another twenty-nine days of this slag. I'm ever so grateful." Sarcasm, sarcasm.

"If I have to suffer through the knowledge, then so do you."

"He really expects us to wash the roofs of these places? How the hell… I'm too heavy to be perching on top of most of these."

"Yeah, and the lift doesn't reach. We're gonna hafta figure that out, later."

"'We'?"

"Yes, 'we.' I'm not going to hang for not scrubbing this place by myself."

"Huh."

A few more minutes of silence, and Maru managed to get Blade's hinges to move like they were supposed to.

"Shut that, and tell me how it feels."

Blade acknowledged with a grunt, and the hatch slid closed and shut with a quiet click.

"Well?"

"It feels… fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yes, just fine. No pain, no catching, no nothing. Fine."

"Hmph."

"Don't ask for more credit than you're due."

"Alright. Next time, I'll let you wallow in your agony, then."

"I wasn't wallowing."

"Whatever."

"Just shut up and finish taking things off the walls. I'm about to scrub those slaggers."

"Hell no, you ain't done with the floors yet."

"I can't look at the damned floors any more, and since you seem to not really want to do the walls, we're going to trade."

"Hell no."

"Hell yes."

"Please, I'll be done with the walls before you can finish the floors."

"Oh come on; you're already an aft dragger, don't get delusional on me too."

"Just watch."

"Fine. I will. When I have plenty of time once I  _finish my cleaning faster than you finish yours._ "

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

* * *

Outside, and far enough from the main hangar door to go unnoticed, a shadow grinned into the darkness.

"Well, that turned out better than expected."

A deep rumble from a much larger shadow.

"No kidding. Faster than us, certainly. We were at each other's throats for weeks. Old man was a rotor's breadth from killing us both."

"It's not too late; we could still find one of them murdered in the morning."

"It would be your brat; the other's an experienced actor, and could get away with it."

"And that would make you sad, wouldn't it?"

"Hell yeah it would. Do you know how much paperwork would go into me covering up that boy's big ol' red body after I disassembled him? I'd be crying while filling out the 'missing person' report."

"You're evil."

"Not yet, but I can feel myself getting there."

A pause, and soft chuckle.

"You would kill your friend's protégé for Maru?"

"I like your little street urchin. Besides, he's gonna replace you one day."

"Heh, don't you know it."

"Hey, I meant that as a joke; you're not allowed to go before me."

"Make me."

"Challenge accepted."

Quiet laughter.

"And what about Blade?"

"What about 'im? Punk's too new for me to like him yet. He's got promise, though."

"And drive."

"Yes. A lot of that. Clearly."

They were quiet for a while.

"So, you're gonna keep 'em both?"

"Yeah. But don't fucking let them know. They've still got a month to impress me."

"And what if they don't?"

"They will. Trust me, they will."

"You just want an excuse to scream at them some more."

"It doesn't have to be screaming. That takes work. But I expect them to keep squirming every time I look at them." A sneer. "Besides, I'm the chief. I don't need an excuse to scream at people."

More laughter.

"You're a bastard."

"Yeah. Hm, maybe I'm there after all."

"Where?"

"Evil."

"You're not just there, you rule the place."

"Good. The universe is working as intended then."

"I can't even."

"Ha!"

More silence.

"By the way, how  _do_ you expect them to scrub the roofs of the buildings?"

"Hell if I know. But hey, if they figure it out, then I know just the two people we'll send when we finally get around to putting new shingles on the storage hangars."

"Sounds like a plan, Your Evilship."

"Thank you, Frumpy Sidekick."

An indignant sputter.

"'Frumpy Sidekick?'"

"Every evil tyrant has one."

"Well, 'Frumpy Sidekick' is gonna let you put your filters in your own engines next time."

"Aw, don't be like that."

"I hate you."

"Jerk."

"Aft."

"You kiss your momma with that mouth?"

"No, but I'll kiss  _your_ momma with this mouth."

"Can you reach my momma from way the hell down there? Do you need help?"

A dismissive snarl. More silence.

"Slag, what were we talking about again?"

"Dunno." And then came a sharp clatter as something fell over in the main hangar, to much bitter cursing. "Oh yeah." Another dark chuckle. "I love training probies."

"Then do it yourself. I've gotta hit the hay before my brain dissolves."

"Yeah, me too. I wanna see if this boy really manages to beat me out of bed."

"As long as he moves faster than a glacier, that won't be hard."

" _Good night,_ Charlie."

"See ya, GT."

The two shadows parted ways, leaving the main hangar in the care of two not-even-almost friends. Chief Vortex managed to smile to himself.

They had time, though. A lot could change in a month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear sweet Primus on a pogo stick, this is the longest one yet. I hope I didn't manage to bore you guys too much.
> 
> Emotional tension is hard for me. Like, really hard. I struggled with this one, I'm sure you could tell. The dialogue seems.. off in places. I'll fix it when I can.
> 
> I set out some new typo traps. Lets see what I catch...


	26. War Stories - Smokejumpers II

_"Come in, Blade."_

_"Go ahead, Dynamite."_

_"We've… we've got a small situation down here. I'm gonna need Windlifter to meet us in the meadow just southwest of the Rollbar Ridge campgrounds. Maybe in… ten minutes."_

_"Copy that."_  A pause.  _"Ten minutes. Why not now? What's going on down there?"_

_"I need a medevac. And I don't know if he'll be able to get to us in less time than that. Largely due to the trees over this sinkhole."_

_"Sinkhole?"_

_"Yeah. 'Lanche and I."_

_"Are either of you in danger of bleeding out sooner rather than later?"_

_"Negative. Avalanche claims he's fine—"_  a clearly audible I'M FINE! from Dynamite's immediate vicinity,  _"—but I'm rather immobile. It shouldn't kill me, though, it'll just take a bit to climb outta here and get clear of the canopy."_

_"I copy. Don't tear yourselves up trying to rush out of there."_

_"No problem, boss."_

* * *

That was easier said than done.

And at the risk of being incredibly blunt, this slag hurt like a sunovabitch.

A sinkhole, really? On a fire line? Out of all the possible emergencies that could occur, Dynamite had to admit that this one was probably way down on her list of Things to Prepare For, right along with the blizzards and the flying pink deere. She supposed it really should have been higher, considering that Piston Peak was well documented to have a great deal of geothermal activity and active springs. She winced, set her jaw, and squinted up the crumbly dirt walls. Well, what little she could see through the massive, slowly dissipating dust cloud that had billowed out when the ground opened up.

At least fifteen feet above her lights, possibly more. The area was wide enough for the two of them to maneuver a bit, or a couple more people to sit bumper to bumper. The walls were sheer, and soft enough to make her wary of having them start to collapse in on them. So far they were holding, but Dynamite was duly expecting to taste her share of soil once they gave an honest attempt at extricating themselves.

And by "they," she meant Avalanche. He was already hard at work, preparing to start dozing a single wall into a grade just shallow enough for them to get out.

Today's double-edged sword was that she was not down here by herself. Whether it had been her weight alone, Avalanche's considerable mass, the two of them combined, or just fate blowing' smoke up their exhausts, Dynamite hadn't a clue. The result, however, was that the track loader had taken the drop with her. She remembered feeling the ground shake as he landed heavily just inches from her flank. On one hand, it meant that they were somehow going to need to get both of them out of here, and Avalanche was not light. Not a single member of the jump team had any rope or line thick enough to survive trying to pull him out. On the other hand, at least she wasn't down here alone, because she wasn't sure how helpful she could be right about now. She tried to maneuver to get a better view out, and was instantly reminded why she was calling for an air lift.

Her fall had terminated abruptly with a good hard, blow to her undercarriage. She'd landed stiffly across a rock, just tall enough and narrow enough to jut up past her rather considerable clearance. She'd seen colored motes, for sure. Painful in and of itself, but nothing she couldn't bite through for a while. And then she got a good dose of Being Wrong; when she had gotten her wind back, coughed dirt from her intakes and tried to move, she had to swallow a high, squeaky sound that was entirely unbecoming for any manner of squad captain. Her back tires weren't spinning, and there was a terrible grinding sound and  _sensation_  that took the pain right from seven to eleven. She's been able to pull herself off the rock (there were now many rocks, but that was the only one offensive enough for her to acknowledge), wincing as her damaged undercarriage scraped hard against the granite. Another squeaky gasp had bubbled out of her throat as her rear drive ground against it too, and she was unable to choke it back in time. It sure did confirm some things, though.

Her rear axle, snapped clean in two. Her AWD blessing was as much a curse now; it was mighty hard to turn her front wheels without the back ones trying to follow suit, which did nothing to help, and  _everything_  to make it hurt more. She'd blinked to clear her eyes, and found herself under Avalanche's intense, bugger-all-personal-space scrutiny. He was worried, which was unusual enough. Avalanche did not worry; if he had any one quality that won people over despite his intensity, it was his complete and utter faith in his teammates' ability to do their jobs. Dynamite could recall a joint training exercise where a couple of the neighboring hotshot crews had looked at her comparatively light build and small size and were more vocal than polite about her ability to work a line with earthmovers. All of the air attack team had bristled, but Avalanche had smirked, and loudly proclaimed his  _fifty_  buck contribution to the betting pool.

Never mind the boost to her confidence, but he had split his considerable winnings with her.

All that to say if Avalanche ever had any visible signs of concern for your wellbeing, it was because a situation had gone right down the scrapper. More unusual, she had seen tinges of  _guilt_  on his face. And that just would not do.

"What's up with that face?"

"FOR A MOMENT— YOU'RE HURT. I THOUGHT I LANDED ON YOU."

Well. That sure explained the worry with guilt sprinkles, because that would have been awful. Bottom of a sinkhole, with Avalanche coming in on  _top_ of her? Ick.

"No, it's not you. I landed rough." That had seemed to calm him a bit, but only so much.

"YOU'RE STILL INJURED, THOUGH."

"Yeah, took a rock to the undercarriage. I am more than confident that my rear axle is snapped."

He'd winced.

"ANY BLEEDS?"

"No, it just hurts like hell." She'd quirked a brow. "How about you? You alright?" He looked no worse for the wear, but she found it hard to believe that someone as heavy as he was, with comparatively few shocks, could take a fall of fifteen to twenty feet, land on their treads, and not have injured something somewhere, heavily protected underbits be damned. He'd shrugged.

"A COUPLE LOOSE BOLTS, GOT THE WIND KNOCKED OUTTA ME, AND THE THREADING OF MY LEFT DRIVE TEETH DON'T FEEL QUITE RIGHT, BUT I'M OKAY."

"Good, because I'll be contributing about as much as a dead fish towards getting us out of here."

He'd cast his eyes upwards.

"CAN 'LIFTER DO IT WITH THIS CANOPY?"

"Not with his rotor span, no. He'd clip a branch, and then join us in here."

"OUCH."

"Yeah, never mind  _your_ fat aft, I don't want to share this rickety hole in the ground with a ten ton Skycrane."

A smirk. Back to his usual self. That simple gesture had lifted her spirits more than she thought possible.

"BE NICE TO MY AFT; IT'S GONNA BE DIGGING US OUTTA HERE."

"Except that you dig with the front, genius."

"WHAT'S THAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER ALL THIS WORK I'M DOING TO GET US OUT!"

It felt good to want to laugh. It also agitated her severed axle, but at least she was clear-headed and sound enough to not keel over dead in the near future. She'd keyed Blade on her mic, and had enjoyed the relief that came from hearing his rotors rumble overhead.

That was a couple minutes ago, and now it was time for the less "fun" part. And she just had to watch; Avalanche was about to be face first in many hundreds of pounds of dirt as he began to excavate them. Thankfully, that kind of work had never bothered him. He was shouting back and forth to Blackout, the latter having to be his eyes above ground. Pinecone and Drip were above Dynamite, now that the dust had cleared enough for them to see down into the bottom of the sinkhole. Drip was cautious with his tread placement; the hole's edges were a crumbly, slippery trap that could send him down to join them. Pinecone was fortunate enough to have such a widely build frame and drive system that she could afford to lean a little further.

"Y'all alright down there?"

"Yeah, we should be okay. I've got…  _issues…_  but nothing that is threatening to do me in."

"I'm assumin' that Chief's hoverin' means he already knows?"

"Yup, he was at the top of my short list of People Who Should Be Informed."

Avalanche backed into the space next to her, enough to make eye contact.

"WATCH YOUR FACE. IT'S ABOUT TO GET GROSS IN HERE."

"You could tell me that we're building a bridge out of mud pies, and if it would get us out of here, I wouldn't care."

He gave her a toothy grin and a nudge gentle enough to let her know that he was still concerned for her wellbeing, before burying his blade in the wall across from them. He scraped out massive amounts of soil, pulling it out and back to begin forming their way out. Eventually, there was enough soil removed to have the top part of wall start to fall in under it's own weight. While still hardly climbable, Dynamite was sure they'd be out of here sooner rather than later.

Something began to prickle her senses. When she could see out through the dust in the air to the sky above, it didn't look right. Where bright light had filtered through the trees, smoke from the fire now blanketed everything in shade. It was billowing out over them. Hadn't it been giving the aircraft trouble over on the  _other_  side, towards the cliffs?

Oh, hell.

Up above, Pinecone was pushing dirt from the sinkhole's edge in towards Avalanche, but Blackout had his attention elsewhere. He moved out of her field of vision, but she could hear a couple curses filter back down towards her. He came back over to look down at her, right about the same time her radio crackled.

"Hey  _jeffe,_  that fire is comin' right for us."

" _Dynamite, get the mobile members of your team out now."_

Well, fuck.

* * *

At first, he'd thought he'd landed on top of her.

When the ground gave underneath them, her end had gone just a fraction of a second before his. How he'd landed on his treads, he hadn't a clue, but he heard a crunch and a gasp that did not come from him as he hit the ground. And right off his flank, too. Even if he didn't land squarely on her, any part of him was solid enough to do some very serious damage. While every bit as fearless and rugged as any UTV could be, she was still only about one tenth his weight. Crushing one's squad captain in an accident did not a good career make. And he couldn't  _see_ through all this dust—oh, there she was. Her lights were still on, and once enough of the dust settled they let him know exactly where she was sitting. Damn, he really was almost right on top of her. "Almost" being the word that he hung onto tenaciously, and it provided him a great deal of relief.

While injured bad enough to be incapacitated, Dynamite was still in relatively good spirits, all things considered. Avalanche didn't have any axles to snap, but could liken it to belt or wheel damage. Speaking of, his own drive system felt… weird. Looser, somehow. When his wheels turned, there was slipping in the drive teeth, like they weren't catching as well as they should have been. He snorted. He'd just have to bear with it, for now. It wasn't painful, just an inconvenience, and they had a rendezvous to keep; Windlifter would be expecting them in eight odd minutes, and hell if they wouldn't make it. But first, Avalanche had to get them both out of here. The easy part, really; all he had to do was knock out a side, and they'd be clear. How they were going to get Dynamite free of the canopy short of carrying her was another problem entirely, but he was sure the rest of the team had better ideas than he did. They were good like that.

It was different, grading an access ramp from inside the hole, but if he just pretended he was knocking out a hill or a small cliff, the process was about the same. He wasn't really equipped for it, a bucket would have been preferable, but his blade was making swift enough work. The soil down deep was very sandy, with chunks of dry clay. No geothermal activity here; this had been a spring, one of many found throughout the park. Now that it had run dry, the combination of air pockets and dry, crumbly soil made the channel fragile. It hadn't been able to take an entire smokejumper crew driving all over it. They had all been over this space; that it happened to swallow him and Dynamite bordered on coincidence. It could have been any of them, really. He could hear Blade overhead, passing more frequently than he usually did while they were out on the line. Watching them, he knew, now that Dynamite had made him aware. Avalanche paid it little mind; he had a job to do, and the faster he did it, the sooner they'd get back on (hopefully) solid ground.

He and Pinecone were cruising when Blackout leaned back over the sinkhole's edge, somewhere towards his back.

"Hey  _jeffe,_  that fire is comin' right for us."

Say what now?

Blade was right on the skid-steer's proverbial heels. He wanted the rest of them out; fire had changed directions, and was coming their way. This fire was hardly the most aggressive they'd seen, but it was burning dirty; there was more than enough fuel still in the black that a change in direction would hardly slow it down. Avalanche pulled back from his current yet unformed pile of dirt to look up. It was… against all instincts to split the team up, "two in, two out" rule be damned. This was wild land, not a municipality. Pinecone and Drip had expressions that agreed, but Dynamite was looking squarely at Blackout. She quirked a brow and nodded, which caused the skid-steer some surprise, but the gesture was returned curtly.

Message received and understood, and although Blackout frowned just slightly, he didn't argue. There wasn't any time for that.

"You sure you'll both be alright?"

"We'll be fine; we're in a dirt hole. The radiant heat is gonna suck, but all the smoke and the like will be headed over us." Blackout still didn't look like he liked any part of this plan, but he began to herd Pinecone and Drip ahead of him, making a break for their safety zone a few hundred yards away. This fire wasn't a sprinter; they were gonna make it there, easy.

Avalanche moved back over to Dynamite's side. She had placed herself back up against one side of the hole. Easier to roll with the heat if you only had one side exposed to the fire. But what good were teammates if they didn't cut you a break when you were down?

Dynamite gave an indignant squawk as he pushed himself right up against her flank, tires to treads. Yeah, a bit uncomfortable now, but she would thank him when things started to heat up. All her protests fell on deliberately deaf ears; he was staying put, through hell or high water, and they both knew which was coming first.

He finally felt Dynamite sigh, and then a soft snort as she leaned slightly against him.

"You know, it's the CO's job to protect the crew, not the other way around?"

"WHAT GOOD IS THE CREW IF THE CO CAN'T RELY ON THEM WHEN SHE NEEDS TO?"

"Dammit. I'm trying to be mad, you stubborn, chivalrous bloke, but I just can't seem to find the anger anywhere."

"DON'T WORRY. I'M SURE I'LL DO SOMETHING IN THE FUTURE FOR YOU TO BE LEGIT ANGRY ABOUT."

He got an actual laugh this time. She relaxed, as much as one could in this situation, and they settled in for a long wait.

Damn, that fire could hurry its aft up already. Jokes aside, Avalanche was ready for this event to be over with.

* * *

In all the times he'd ever idly pondered becoming team leader, this was certainly not how he imagined it going. Two of theirs were trapped in a sinkhole with the head of the fire now turned squarely in their direction, and they were told to book it. Hardly Blackout's first choice of action, but this had come down the chain of command and landed firmly at his tires. That, and Dynamite had passed him the baton. She trusted him as much, and he wanted to make it count. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if there was something more they could do for their teammates while they waited out the burn over. Anything that could expedite Dynamite's extraction from the sinkhole and free of the canopy so that Windlifter had clear access.

The canopy, huh? Huh.  _Huh._

He slammed on his brakes hard enough to almost send himself face first into the ground. Drip and Pinecone almost ran up on him, and were forced to stop short too. Their bewilderment was strong enough to show on their faces. Drip was slightly more vocal about it.

"What gives, dude?"

Blackout turned to face them abruptly, chewing his tongue. At his disposal were a circ-saw, claw and telescopic grapple, as well as two coworkers mixed with friends that were every bit as willful as he was.

And hopefully, just as inclined to take a little heat now, and a lot of heat later.

"Are you two willing to help me do something that is both completely loco and in direct violation of our current orders?"

* * *

The last thing Dynamite expected to hear above her was a resurgence of engine activity. Three distinctive rumbles, the sounds you get used to due to proximity and are as identifiable as the owner's faces.

Usually, it was a reassuring sound.

They should not be here. Their safety zone was a ways away; if they wanted to beat the flames with any manner of a cushion for time, they should have not come back. Blackout should have not  _let_ them come back. He was solid and reliable; if there was anyone else she trusted with the overall wellbeing of the team as a whole, it was him. So why were they  _back?_ Dynamite could think of several reasons, the most immediate being flames around their safety zone. But that didn't make sense; the fire still hadn't quite arrived here (although the smoke above them had certainly grown much darker and thicker), and their evacuation site was even more leeward than this location.

Other sounds wafted down the sinkhole that made her core clench. Blackout's saw. Creaking, snapping wood. A loud thud. Drip's engine. What the hell were they doing up there? They needed to go. Now.  _Five minutes ago._  Y'know, like when they left the first time. She squirmed and tried to glance out, but pinned between the wall and Avalanche's bulk made that quite impossible, injury or no.

Next to her, the big loader stiffened. There was rustling overhead, and one of the big pine trees  _shook._  There, Blackout's saw again, briefly. Then it stopped, and moved on. The tree, though, shook again, more violently this time, and after a couple violent shudders toppled to the ground with a groan and the sharp snapping of branches. It was unexpected enough that Avalanche gave a tiny flinch. If she weren't pressed right up against his flank, she never would have noticed.

Another tree started to list, before it toppled as well. Dynamite could track her team's movement around them, counter clockwise, as they knocked out every tree within sixty feet of the sinkhole. And  _fast._ She'd be impressed if it weren't exactly what she didn't want them to be doing.

Too much. They were doing too much. Her and 'Lanche were alright. They would continue to be alright. Maybe incredibly uncomfortable while the fire burned over, but she rather liked their odds. The rest didn't have the luxury of being trapped in noncombustible dirt hole in the ground. Dynamite snarled in frustration. Oh, she was gonna slap some people when they all got out of here, whether they were in the med bay or not.

A wayward cinder fluttered down next to one of Avalanche's treads, and Dynamite stiffened. Not really what she felt like seeing right now. A small spark could travel for miles on the wind, so really, it wasn't like that was an indication of—what was Avalanche staring at?

"Hey…"

He didn't bother to look back down at her.

"THERE ARE MORE.  _LOTS_  MORE."

Dynamite had to swallow her horror. A veritable blizzard of small, glowing sparks were whipping over the top of the sinkhole. The fire was almost right on top of them, if it was driving this much wind in front of itself. She could hear the roar and crackle of flames. Oh Chrysler, were they still up there?

Yes, yes they were. She could hear them. Drip, in particular.

"Hey dude, this thing is right on top of us! It's now or never!"

"Yeah, we've done what we can. Let's move!" Blackout leaned over the edge of the sinkhole, never mind how the soil started to crumble under his weight. "Look out below!"

" _Blackout!_  Dammit, what the hell are you doing here!?" Her voice cracked. Noooo, no no nononononono. She couldn't lose them. Maker dammit, why… "I swear, if I was able to bury my tires in your stupid face…!"

"You'll get to, in just a moment here." He canted his head towards the sinkhole. "Everyone in!"

"Say  _what!?_ "

"Geronimo!" If Drip even looked before he flung himself down into the pit, he sure didn't bother to pause to think about it. He gave a loud 'oof" as his treads hit the ground, wincing. "Wow, that hurt a bit more than I was expecting."

Dynamite couldn't even believe it. Even when the ground shook as Pinecone plunged into their rapidly dwindling space, Dynamite's brain refused to comprehend. Why  _here,_ when the emergency zone was over  _there?_  Why waste time, when they could be hunkered in the predetermined area chosen specifically for its ability to protect them when things got dicey?

Blackout spared only the barest moment to look around before following them down. It was a tight fit, now; he scraped the side of the sinkhole on his way in, leaving some rather painful-looking scratches against one flank and lift arm. He gave her a sheepish grin, which did absolutely nothing to quell the fury-confusion-fear that was still having an uncontrollable tantrum through her head.

"What the fuck!?"

"Yeah."

"You had  _one job!_ "

"Yeah."

"To lead them  _out!_  You were supposed to lead them  _out,_  Blackout! Not a quarter ways out and then change your damned mind! And certainly not for some stupid trees! If you can  _feel the flames, it is too late for that slag!_  Why? Why would you—"

"We're not going to leave you guys."

Dynamite choked on a strangled cry that was one part pained frustration and another part incomprehensible surprise.

"Ain't that the damned honest truth." Pinecone, from somewhere else in the hole. Dynamite could see the glow of her lights, even through all the dust.

Blackout met her gaze evenly.

"I did have one job; to get everyone to safety. And last I checked, 'everyone' still includes 'Lanche and you. And if you thought being down here was safe enough for the two of you, then it can't be any less safe for all five of us. The trees? Yeah, maybe that was overkill. And a bit of a time-waster. But now we  _know_  that the fire won't be comin' any closer. And once it dies down, Windlifter can get you and Avalanche out of here. No digging or hikes required." Avalanche's raspy I'M STILL FINE! was dutifully ignored.

"I can't even…"

Blackout cut her off.

"And you can spare us the Obligatory Team Leader Responsibility Speech. You would do the same thing. You  _have done_ the same thing. You've never left any of us, ever. Not Drip after that rockslide. Not Pinecone and I after that fallen tree incident. Not Avalanche after he did his best impression of a comet." A grunt of acknowledgement from the 'dozer next to her. "And we're not going to leave you."

All her retorts, all her complaints, and anger, and rants. Killed immediately. She finally closed her mouth when it became clear that she really didn't have anything appropriate to respond to all that.

At least someone else did.

"Just relax, lady. Let us shoulder some of the worryin' for once." Pinecone, again, from Avalanche's other side. "We gotcha."

Dynamite sighed. It felt like she had expelled a good deal of stress when she did so. Which, of course, let her emotions come flooding in to fill the void. Not what she wanted, and rather embarrassing, but she could at least feel confident that such a display wouldn't leave here on anyone's lips. Whatever the hell had just happened? Sacrosanct. It wouldn't be spoken of again. At least, not directly.

She closed her eyes to alleviate the stinging, and Avalanche leaned into her flank just a little harder. Blackout pushed closer enough for her to feel him solidly on her bumper. Drip and Pinecone were on the outside of the huddle, and even without the physical contact, Dynamite just felt better knowing they were there. They were _h_ _ere._

It got hot pretty quick, as the fire consumed trees around their little natural bunker. At the very least, Blackout's work was showing already; without the immediate canopy of branches, they didn't have to worry about burning debris scorching their plating. And without fuels nearby to burn, the temperature was kept at Let's Never Do this Again, instead of Wake Me Up When It No Longer Hurts to Breathe.

And either way, she'd be fine. They'd be fine, raging inferno or not.

At least she got to ride it out with her family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because someone asked me for some jumpers doing dangerous jumper things. I hope there's enough danger in here for ya.
> 
> I cannot even tell you peeps how hideous this looked for a while. When I wake back up, I may find better ways to use my words in some places. I tried to be as deliberate with my tense-changes as possible, so that the timeline could be understood. Not sure if I was successful.
> 
> The typo traps are set; I always end up catching something first thing in the morning.


	27. War Stories - Pulaski

When he accepted this job, Pulaski had expected a lot of things.

An odd combination of lots of downtime and All The Work, for starters. Himself and Rake were to be the only firefighters in their new "department"; with the renovation of the old lodge, the Super had requested a firefighter from the county to come and staff the new facility at the resort proper. Of course, firefighters never work alone, so Pulaski made the move with Rake. This had apparently caused a bit of grumbling from the Super about having to pay double was he was originally intending, but having fire personnel immediately available was both insurance on his investment into the renovations, and it kept the state off his back about safety precautions and emergency response times.

And Pulaski and Rake got a station, of sorts, to themselves. A win-win situation for everyone, really. As it turns out, lose-win, at least as far as he and Rake were concerned.

When he accepted this job, Pulaski was entirely unprepared for the Superintendent who would FUBAR all his efforts in a spectacular flourish of money, ego, and borderline ill-will.

Superintendent Spinner had created the new fire department pretty much from scratch; the park had, in recent history, used the resources from the county for their structural fire prevention needs (airbase obviously excluded). Pulaski sometimes felt like giving himself a good solid knock on the head for not reading too much into the trepidation put forth by his former BC in regards to taking over all structures inside of the park, or why she had sent him with several massive binders full of weather and attendance records, the entirety of the published NFPA guidelines, as well as copies of county fire's SOPs. He appreciated it in short order, since whomever Spinner had consulted about how a fire response service was supposed to be run had been so far off the mark they were floating in the lake. Basically, it was the bare minimum required for a fire department to operate, if that. Some of the corners cut felt… highly illegal, to put it politely. "Bare minimum" was not how Pulaski liked to work, so he spent much of his downtime consulting county standing orders and rewriting them to suit the park's immediate needs. A couple weeks in, and he still wasn't halfway through any one of the fat binders he was attempting to commit to memory.

Which was pretty unfortunate, because that's when the park exploded.

Pulaski likened it to being warned ahead of time that a stick of dynamite was lit, had a good, long fuse that you could dowse at any time, and yet your immediate superior told you it was a non-issue. Pulaski had not had his mind boggled like this for some time; the remodel of the Grand Fusel Lodge was, obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes and a willingness to see, Spinner's most (and only) beloved project. He had eavesdropped on a couple conversations between Cad and someone on the other end of his phone (not hard—Spinner tended to speak loudly, no matter who was around) and the sheer amount of zeros that followed after most numbers he spat out could make anyone go blind. Maybe that's why he refused to acknowledge that a few lightning strikes had turned into a monster that could toast his giant wooden baby to ash. Pulaski had the lodge's tower keep him up to date. Granted, Pulaski and Rake were in charge of structures, and all the small blazes so far had been firmly in wilderness, but it wouldn't take much at all for a brushfire to become a structure blaze in short order. That was all the air attack team's business; while Pulaski had seen them coming and going at a distance, he had yet to actually have a formal meeting with them. It was on his to-do list; it was good practice to introduce yourself to anyone you might be sharing calls with, especially between two small groups doing the roughly the same job inside the same area.

That to-do list would have to wait, though; right now, Pulaski had one job, and very little help to do it with.

If he'd been told that he would have to evacuate an overpopulated national park with the help of a single old ranger and the bloody Secretary of the Interior, he wouldn't have believed it. This was a slight exaggeration, but not by much; never mind that the fire had started cresting the ridge not a minute after Spinner had decided to flippantly ignore warnings from both himself and Jammer, but he was dead set on downplaying the urgency as guests left in a orderly a fashion as could be expected. It had taken Pulaski and Rake forever to get that line of planes clear of the lodge, by the Maker. The calm eye of the storm, though, was Ol' Jammer. Pulaski owed him something nice; old-timer  _deserved_  something nice. Seven decades working at a single place was serving the ranger well; you could look up both "unflappable" and "seen everything" in a dictionary, and Jammer's picture would be beside both. He was urgent without being hysterical, and firm without being abrasive. He gave clear, concise instructions, had seniority on every ranger in the park, and enough respect that when he asked (politely!) for anything, he got it. He'd seen more of this park than anyone else currently residing in it, and it was because of him that evacuations for all street vehicles proceeded swiftly, and without hiccups.

Of course, it would all fall apart at the entry road.

Fire moved fast, gotta love droughts, and Pulaski and Rake were put through their paces trying to keep up. Pulaski didn't have nearly enough water to fight a running fire, nor was he built to. His "pump and roll" abilities were limited in comparison to a brush truck, regardless of his superior tank capacity and pressure max, neither of which would do him any good if he could neither catch the fire head before it got too close, or he ran fresh out of water. Rake was working as his spotter. Without a lead from a hydrant, Pulaski didn't carry enough for him to pull another line and help him out. Even a small preconnect just meant they would drain what little they had all the quicker. And they weren't even trying to put the flames out, but keep them a safe distance from the gate as Jammer and the Secretary of the Interior coaxed people through the entry gate. Wild land fires weren't really extinguished with hose lines anyhow; you might as well try to attack it with a fire extinguisher.

If any one thing short of the sheer size of this conflagration impressed Pulaski, it was that the Secretary stayed to tough it out with them. Pulaski had expected (and rather intended) that he would make the evacuation trip out with the Muir, same way he had come in. But he was a stubborn, tough old SUV. When Pulaski had attempted to see him safely off, he'd been leveled with a look that had right slaughtered any protest he could have mustered.

"Son, this is as much my park as it is yours. As it is everyone's. Jammer's got some of his people on it, but you need both bodies and cool heads, yes?"

And there hadn't really been much Pulaski could say to that, other than "yes, sir," and "thank you."

A soft snort.

"Whether I'm right here or in the box at Washington, my job remains the same. Just tell me where you need me."

He'd been actively part of the evacuation ever since. Pulaski had somewhat hoped that he'd meet up with the pair of rangers Jammer had assigned to lead the front of the line of cars out to the staging area beyond the park perimeter, but he'd voluntarily posted by the entry gate upon arrival, and had stayed until Jammer had made his way up the line. The two of them coordinated movement through both sides of the gate, and while another person on scene was less space Pulaski had to maneuver in, he was grateful for the extra set of eyes.

And then the fire moved itself most solidly into his workspace. The heat and dry air had probably been warming the tiles on the roof of the entry gate for a while now, given how one lick of flame and a couple ciders had set it ablaze. It was like watching a flash-over, but on the outside. While hardly what he wanted to see, especially since it compromised the structural integrity of the gate, Pulaski moved to put it out. He could feel the water in his tank; he should at least have enough for that. Maybe. After that, he would be spent.

His problem, though, was two-fold. The fire was also busy scorching the hill above them; it burned the trees straight down through the duff and into the roots in the soil. Ashen roots had no ability to bear the remaining weight of a tree on a hill, so they came down swiftly, bringing sizable rocks and no small amount of dirt with them. One large pine went down right on top of the gatehouse, and Pulaski had to back out of a stinging cloud of sparks. As well he did, because the rockslide was bearing down on them next. Pulaski wasn't too worried about his own skin, but Jammer and the secretary were lighter than him by quite a few tons, and really…

…and  _really,_  because it was his job.

The stones smarted and he could taste the grit from the clouds of dust and ash, but he had to bite down on a grunt when a sizable rock crunched hard against his roof turret. That slag  _hurt,_  made his eyes sting and vibrated down his works and straight into his tank. Well, looks like Rake may be pulling a crosslay after all. He still had a few gallons in there, and damage to his roof nozzle or not he still had a job to do. He gave a brief check; yup, his roof nozzle was non-functional, never mind the pain that laced from it when he tried to flow water. Even more pressing than that was the sudden disappearance of their evacuation route, currently buried under tons of blazing wood. They weren't the only ones, given the sudden screech of old Muir's brakes from somewhere above him. That was no insignificant slide, if it had created enough debris to stop a  _train._  Pulaski took a deep breath, gathering his bearings back into some semblance of control. He and Rake were still in charge of a couple hundred park patrons, never mind the train full of them up the hill, and Pulaski didn't have the resources on hand to deal with it himself. Especially not without a damned hydrant.

He knew who did, though. Air attack teams were generally not mobile at night, though, and with a fire like this, it was likely that their ground resources where already out in the park. But he was left with few alternatives; either they attempt to clear the blockage themselves (difficult, time consuming, and likely to be highly painful due to now being Immensely On Fire), or he could turn this entire line of civilians around to attempt to shelter in place at the lodge (also time consuming, difficult to manage without being at the new "front" of the line, and he had no eyes in the back to let him know what conditions looked like). He keyed his radio; he'd been sitting on this frequency for weeks, and now was as good a time to fire it up as ever. He was prepared, however, to be fresh out of luck.

_"E-sixty-four Pulaski to Air Attack Tower."_

_"Air Attack Tower, go ahead."_

_"You should be made aware; the fire has overtaken the entry road, fully involved on both sides. There was a minor rockslide; The road itself is usable, but the gate structure has collapsed, also fully involved."_

_"Ten-four, active fire, structure collapse. Are you on the lodge side, or the exit side?"_

_"Lodge side. Myself, my teammate, two staff, and couple hundred yet-to-evacuate park guests."_ Pulaski heard Muir's whistle from up the hill as he let off steam.  _"One train, also on the lodge side of the tunnel."_

_"Copy that."_

There was a long pause. Rake had pulled a line from Pulaski's crosslays and was busy emptying the last of his water supply alongside the road, trying to keep the flames from getting too close. It wouldn't do much, but Rake had never been much up for "sit on your aft and wait." Neither had Pulaski, to be perfectly honest.

_"Air Attack Tower to Engine Sixty-four Pulaski."_

_"Engine Pulaski."_

_"We're inbound, but we're having a malfunction in our retardant tanks, so we can only do so much. Do you have any space available for a five-man crew of smokejumpers anywhere nearby?"_

He didn't really know what he'd been expecting, but a full response was  _not_ it. All the 'yeses' in the world, he'd pay for them.

Wait. He was getting smokejumpers _._  In the  _dark._  Oh slag.

_"There will be more space for them on our side than on the other. Less tree cover, too. How much space will they need, minimum?"_ He hoped it wasn't measured in many multiple yards, because he did not have that to work with right now.

_"The largest to account for is a six-ton compact track loader."_

A track loader. Not particularly big, dimension-wise, but heavy enough that a miss on the landing could be dangerous for many people involved.

_"I'll do my best, but I hope they like trying to land on a throw rug."_

A slight lilt to the voice on the other end that heavily implied a smile.

_"These kids would try to set down on a postage stamp, if you told them to."_

And Pulaski had to resist a smirk of his own.

_"Copy that."_

Well, that was a better reaction than he'd been able to ever wish for. Yes, he'd hoped for the ground crew, but the air tankers as well? That was… a blatant violation of procedures, Pulaski could be reasonably sure. He discarded the thought in short order. There had been a lot of blatant disregard for procedure lately; at least this was to the benefit and immediate life safety of a whole lot of people, himself and Rake included.

It was to great relief, then, when he could start to pick out the distinctive sounds that rumbled ahead of aircraft. It seemed to have a calming effect over others hearing it, since it meant the arrival of immediate help. Thank the Maker, because Rake was nearing his wits end trying to keep people from running over each other in their panic, and Pulaski was not far behind him. They had solid reason for hysteria, he'd give them that, no one wanted to be trapped on a narrow road while surrounded by flames that easily topped trees by close to fifty feet, but the sooner Pulaski could get everyone's wheels turning again, the better off they'd all be.

The air attack team roared right over the exit road, and Pulaski backed out to give them as much space as he was able. Two planes, flying low, lead in by a helicopter solidly on the larger end of any Pulaski had ever been close to. One other plane, far and away the largest seen yet of this crew, flying noticeably higher, and slow enough that Pulaski was half worried that he'd stall out and drop out of the sky. He didn't even know big prop-jobs could  _do_  that. And then there were little yellow blooms of parachutes out from behind him. Ah, that made more sense; high and slow, give the jump team time to stick the landing. There was no room for error, given that all they had available to land on was fire, a bunch of people, a tiny asphalt "clearing," or more fire. And a cliff.

He had no idea who had done their conditioning, but this team was on point. Pulaski fully expected to have at least a couple people get caught in the retardant dump from the aircraft. He clearly didn't have any first hand experience laying wet lines from the air, but it had to be harder than "point nozzle and open bale." Nope, big chopper dropped his load right on the burning remains of the entry gate, and not hardly a splatter ran anywhere else. The yellow dual prop (was she amphibious? Sure looked it) put a heavy line along the hill that Pulaski and Rake had been trying to soak for the last few minutes, and the small orange and white SEAT put down just enough retardant to snuff the log smoldering in front of Muir's grille. Odd, it had really been just a puff of the stuff, to be honest.  _We're having a malfunction in our retardant tanks,_  huh? Unable to load more than they had on them already, so they had pretty much just dumped all they had. Pulaski understood the feeling. They had made their limited supplies count, though, and that's what really mattered.

And by the Maker, that SEAT smacked of  _someone,_  maybe, but Pulaski didn't have any real time to dwell on it.

A small yellow UTV finally touched tires in the makeshift clearing Rake had been maintaining, wheels turning before she was fully on the ground to take her out of the way of the far larger members of her team coming in behind her. A track loader with a claw was in right on her bumper. Huh, sturdy, but nowhere near six tons. They were followed by a skidsteer with a saw, a telehandler (wow, those were rare on jump teams), and another track… oh, yeah,  _that_ one was six tons, easy. He was heavy on the landing, to be expected, but otherwise all five of them made it safely inside the tiny pocket of space available. A part of him wondered briefly if he should buy a book of stamps just to test their chops with. He buried the thought, firmly. They were hardly free and clear, and assuming he made it out without any more damage, there would be time for relieve his curiosity later.

The ground crew had gone to work, pretty much as they put their respective drive systems to the ground. All their captain said was, "lets clear this road," and it happened. Pulaski was used to busy,  _loud_  fire scenes. Commands, yelling, all kinds of the usual rough brand of firefighter communication that bowled right over feelings and made stuff happen. All of these people were apparently so used to working together that they could do it almost by feel. There was the occasional standard safety command as they moved debris, but they were remarkably in-sync for crew that exchanged so few words between them. Impressive; urban crews didn't have that kind of luxury, mostly.

Up above him, Pulaski could hear Muir's engine chug to life as he pushed through the smoking debris at his face, moving on into the tunnel. Good, then at least some of his charges were free and clear. It took only moments more for the jump team to clear at least one narrow lane of the entry road, cutting and removing a few intact larger pieces and straight bulldozing the rest. The main mess of the gate would have to wait; it was too precarious to jostle n any manner of haste, and Pulaski had to move these people off the roadway, or else people further back were going to start being overcome by the radiant heat off the trees. He crossed gazes with the crew captain, and she pulled her team off to the sides with nary more than a "hey!" and a cant of her head.

Jammer and the Secretary wasted no time at all jumping right back into guiding traffic. They might be down an entire lane for egress, but at least the pressure had been released. Jammer advised people take it slow, but Pulaski had no doubts that as soon as they were around the bend and out of immediate eyeshot (or sooner, really), they would gun it, fleeing as fast as they could take the turns. At least until they caught up with the tail end of the rest of the evacuees. Fortunately, this section of road had very few turnoffs from it; it would be hard to get lost, even without other taillights to follow.

Speaking of, there were two more people he'd feel much better about having out of harm's way. Jammer was a tough old bus, and Pulaski liked and respected his observations and input, but it was time for him to head out with everyone else. Safeguarding the park was his job, and safeguarding the people in it was  _Pulaski's_  job. This fire was fierce, and was liable to be burning for some time to come, and he would feel much better about making sure the old ranger was as far from the danger as possible. In the same vein, the hell he was gonna let the US Secretary of the Interior risk his plating out on the leading edges of a wildfire. That would look just great on his record (oh, that bittersweet sarcasm), letting a Federal appointee get injured under his supervision. He was grateful for their help, more than grateful, but he now had the backup he needed, outfitted and conditioned to work in situations such as these. They could be far more help to him outside of the burn area (the Secretary, in particular, had occasionally let slip a few dark facial expressions that probably hinted that calls had to be made, and soon).

As was expected, both old men had their stubborn streaks. Jammer was easier to reason with; the crew needed space to work, and it would be easier without watching the backs extraneous people milling about the scene. The Secretary was a bit harder, if only because Pulaski was aware that he was trying to negotiate with a man so far up the ladder from him that he might as well have been shouting from the bottom of a mountain. His tone, accordingly, was less "get out of my workspace now," and more "please, for the sake of your wellbeing and my sanity, get to a place were you can give me the kind of help that can only come from a few well-placed phone calls." He emphasized the 'please' part very, very heavily. Oh sure, Pulaski was positive that mutual aide was not far out; he hadn't left the lodge without letting county fire know what was going down, but there were all manner of other resources to bring to bear, and Pulaski was not equipped to handle it now. Or  _here._  And he was gonna need those resources yesterday.

Stubborn, as he was well aware, did not mean stupid. In the end, he was able to convince both men that he had this, and stick them with the rest of the park patrons on their way out. They did insist on waiting to bring up the rear end of the line when it passed, though. A comfortable compromise, and it let Pulaski and Rake turn their attentions elsewhere. Namely, the rest of the debris field created by the collapsed gate. He and Rake served as barricades between the line of guests and the smokejumpers as they began to chip away at the timbers. That one with the circ-saw was getting a real workout, no joke. He had to change blades about halfway into the process. The rest were carefully moving sections of logs into simple stacked rows along the side of the road. It was slow, precise work to keep the rest of the ungainly structure from moving about as it came down, but it was progressing. The loader with the claw said something about "Hell's Jenga," to a combination of snickers and eye rolls from everyone else. It was… oddly apt.

Rake leaned over to tap him on the flank.

"We may be able to get this done faster with two saws, ya know."

Pulaski mulled it over. Yes, they may be able to, but it was also a bit of a slide towards Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen. Pulaski had extra saws in his compartments, but the workspace was crowded enough as it was. Still…

He turned enough to look at the UTV currently trying to peer around the skidsteer as he was face first in the debris pile, saw running full throttle.

"Squad Captain!"

She pulled herself out enough to look at him, spacing herself far enough from the noise of the circ-saw to hear him.

"We have another saw we can bring out. Could you use a pair of tines?"

She looked over the slowly shrinking hill of smoldering wood. She nodded at Pulaski, but addressed Rake.

"Think you can get to the other side?"

"Sure thing!"

"Then yes, please; once Blackout pulls a few more members we can start chipping away at the big tree in the middle. Pinecone'll meet you over there!"

Pulaski had no idea which one was Pinecone, but the telehandler waved at them from over the pile of logs. Pulaski popped a hatch on his flank, Rake grabbed the portable chainsaw, and began to slowly squeeze through the evacuees on his way around the debris. Good, that would keep Rake busy, and hopefully allow them to get out of here all the faster.

Below them, that line of retardant was holding, but only so much. Pulaski could feel the heat, both radiating from the flames and on the wind that the fire sent roaring ahead of itself. Jammer was doing a good job trying to keep folks calm, but patience in return was a rare commodity. Thankfully, most people were easily persuaded to use the energy used for running their mouths to power their wheels instead. And, at the very least, the line was shrinking. It would still be a few minutes before they got everyone clear of the blockage, but it was happening.

The smokejumper captain moved to put her focus back into the task at hand, when her radio crackled. Pulaski heard only the soft hiss of almost-static, but for everyone close to her it was clearly loud enough to make out. They kept at it, but there was a brief pause in surprise.

"SERIOUSLY, CHIEF'S BACK UP!?"

That one knew how to project, damn, but it was both enlightening and not. Their chief was back up. Had he gone down, for some reason? Injury? Illness? Pulaski didn't know, and it wasn't his business, but he did wonder if their willingness deploy a full airbase in the dead of night was at least partially because the big boss wasn't in the condition to make such a call. He turned his attention back to the line of cars trying to get out, and the flames that slowly licked their way across the lines of drying retardant. They didn't have much more time, but at least things were moving. Without water, Pulaski could do little more than lend his eyes and his opinion. Behind him, he could hear Rake start the chainsaw. The sound was a little comforting to him, at least.

He heard tires come up from behind him, stopping at about even with his flank.

"How are we doing over here?"

The UTV. She was still turned enough that she could keep eyes on her crew, but apparently she had enough confidence in their ability to be self-sufficient for a short while.

"As well as we can be, considering. Moving, not as fast as I would like, but better than we were." He stuffed a sigh. Was the day over yet? He dipped his head in her direction. "Thank you."

She gave him a small smile and a snort.

"Pft, don't worry about it."

"I will worry about it, thanks. When I called for aid, I didn't expect your whole base to show up."

"Ha! Shows what you know about our base."

"That is my fault, too. I haven't made time to properly introduce myself, yet."

"No time like the present then. I'm Dynamite." Pulaski found couldn't stop his eyebrows from quirking nearly fast enough. She smirked. "Yeah, I realize how that sounds. Not dynamite, but Dynamite. Long story."

"Pulaski." Nicknames for firefighters were sometimes so random they seemed plucked from the void. If hers came with a story, he'd hear it when one of them felt like telling him. He canted his head in his partner's direction. "The guy happily hacking away at a log is Rake."

She grinned back in his direction.

"Such enthusiasm."

"You have no idea."

The short nod she gave seemed knowing enough. Given the four brawny people she rode in with, it was probably true.

And then, to Pulaski's immense pleasure, he could see the very end of the line of cars down around the next bend. Thank the Maker, this nonsense was ending. Jammer and the Secretary unstuck themselves from where they'd been rooted to their duties and fell in line, as promised, at the very end. He had faith that they'd keep the peace, but in this situation, he wasn't sure about any conditions up the road. Nothing had come in from other rangers over the park frequencies, but still.

He regarded Dynamite.

"Do you still need Rake?"

She returned the look.

"Why?"

"I don't feel entirely safe sending them without backup from someone who is trained to give it. We had slides and debris here, and the road has much steeper, more sheer cliffs as you continue."

Dynamite gave the scene a quick once over.

"Now that the immediate emergency is over, urgency is less of an issue. We can handle this, no problem."

"Thanks. Hey, Rake!"

"Yeah?"

"Do me a favor, and make sure they actually make it to the evacuation staging area, would you? I'll follow you up in a little while, but I want to make sure this gets taken care of."

Rake cocked a brow, but didn't argue.

"I gotcha. Lemme get some stuff out of the extrication hatch, first." He came back round from the far side of the debris pile, and fished his irons out of the compartment by Pulaski's tailboard. Hefting both those and the chainsaw, he took off down the road. Pulaski sighed slowly through his teeth. At least if anything happened now, they'd have Rake on hand to get them out of it.

Next to him, Dynamite looked thoughtful.

"Avalanche, go with him."

The big loader looked up from a smoldering log he was pushing off to the side. He gestured in Rake's general direction with his blade, and made to follow at Dynamite's nod.

"You don't have to do that."

"Blah blah no one goes alone blah. While having Avalanche around sure makes things go faster here, if there really is more debris on the exit road, he'll make dealing with a royal pain in the aft much,  _much_  easier."

Pulaski couldn't really argue with that. He moved aside to let the dozer pass (because he had been eyeing the debris field like it would be rather fun to climb his treads across it), and got a lopsided smile in return.

"Thank you. I get the feeling I'll be saying that a lot before the night is out. I don't like sending Rake out by himself, but at this point we're stretched thin enough that we're slowly getting used to working a little solo."

Dynamite quirked a brow at him.

"Is the rest of your crew elsewhere?"

And wasn't that the question of the hour? Except it wasn't; the truth was far more bitter.

" _What_  rest of my crew?" And he managed to say it without any sarcasm. It didn't need it, and Dynamite didn't miss the implications.

"Wow, and I thought Spinner gave  _us_ the shaft… We heard that he had managed to post an engine at the lodge, but we figured you came with…He really only brought in you and Rake?"

"Well, he really wanted only me, but this isn't a job anyone can do on their own, no matter how one might try, so our BC shipped him out with me."

She gave an eye roll that would have been overly dramatic if the situation was not what it was.

"Swear, this guy thinks our job is easy."

"Been here barely more than two weeks, and I already want to beat my face against a wall. Don't know if I'll survive years of this."

"That's a pity; we need someone down at the lodge who has at least enough brains to rub together. Blade, at least, will appreciate the relief."

"Blade?"

"Sorry, our chief. He was… out… earlier this evening, but has apparently mustered up enough energy to go after our SEAT in training, who took off on a rescue by himself. I'm surprised he managed to make it into the air around our mechanic."

Pulaski was going to ask, politely, what had happened to their chief. However, she had just served him some information that he was pretty sure he didn't want any elaboration on.

"Wait… what rescue?"

Dynamite gave him a look that spoke volumes to her surprise.

"Two people, RVs, are apparently stuck on the Whitewall Fall Bridge across Augerin Canyon."

Pulaski closed his eyes and hissed, which was in lieu of a biting word that most proudly featured the letter 'f.' She knew about it, which meant their tower knew about it, so why didn't  _his_  tower know about it, and why didn't they contact  _him?_

"You didn't know?"

"No, no I did not. How the hell… last I checked, that whole section had been evacuated. First! We sent rangers there first, since it's both very remote and a popular tourist destination! How did… I swear, if they got pulled by any of Spinner's own to do  _something else…"_

"Well, this just gets better and better, don't it?"

"No kidding. Since you guys are here, though, it may actually go that way."

Dynamite smiled, and then her radio crackled again. A voice filtered through it, crisp and clear in and of itself, although there was some static in the lines. Pulaski didn't hear anything particularly unusual in the quality, but Dynamite clearly did, and it showed in her expression. She backed out a few lengths from both Pulaski and her team to listen.

Pulaski moved his attention down the road. Two trapped. And in Augerin Canyon, no less. He didn't know what a SEAT would be able to do for them. Not like he could just fly them to safety, and he'd dropped the last of his retardant up the hill for Muir. In such low-visibility conditions, the lake was a no go, unless one fancied a tree through the canopy, followed by a painful, fiery death. Dynamite had said their chief was on the way, though. A helicopter, he'd heard. Maybe he'd have more tools at his disposal.

It was by sheer luck, given the shouting and rumbling engines of the smokejumpers and the omnipresent roar of the surrounding flames, that he heard Dynamite's quiet, if poisonous, curse. Under her breath, as much as she was able, but that didn't lessen the acidity. The rest of her crewmates didn't seem to notice.

Dynamite rolled stiffly back towards her crew, and Pulaski watched her stuff some expression that was hard to put a name on back under a suddenly crisp, serious façade.

"Alright, let's get this done, guys. We won't have Avalanche for a short while, but let's make sure that he doesn't still have work to do when he gets back." She drew a shaky breath. That, at least, caused rippling, silent exchanges of gazes amongst the entire team.

"Is something up?" The skidsteer, from around a quick check of his saw teeth.

"Yes." She didn't elaborate. It was to be expected that they wanted more than that.

"It ain't Chief… is it?"

"No, he's as much alright as he can be currently. It's Dusty." And Dynamite looked very much like she didn't want to dwell more on that than she had to.

"Oh slag."

"Are you kidding?"

"Of course she's not kidding!"

"It was rhetorical, afthat."

"We need to go!"

" _No._ " And Dynamite's sharp bark closed up all their mouths at once. "No, we do not. Not yet. Boss didn't call for us. He knows we're out here, but he only called for Windlifter. They're in the hills above Augerin Canyon, which is both a massive hike to get to from here, and an absolute pain to land in even if we were able to get Cabbie to drop us there. Let them handle it; if they need us, they'll call." She took another breath, as if she was digesting her own words as she said them. "Until they do, our orders haven't changed. So let's get this slag done."

They were already a vigorous bunch, Pulaski would give them that, but they resumed attacking the collapsed park gate with a fervor that wasn't often seen outside of probies with something to prove. He understood the urgency, though. Had felt it before, likely would again before his career was over.

Nothing rallied the troops like the fall of one of their own.

He backed himself out of their immediate workspace, best give them the room they needed, and keyed his radio.

_"Come in, Jammer."_

_"Go ahead for Jammer."_

_"Have Rake and Avalanche caught up to you, yet?"_

_"That big yellow bulldozer? Yes, they're here. Currently moving aside some large rocks that found their way into the middle of the road, but they're fine otherwise."_

_"Good. I need you to send the dozer back. His teammates need him."_

_"Copy that, give me a minute, and I'll send him your way."_

Pulaski cut the connection, and found Dynamite in his vicinity.

"You don't have to do that, you know."

"Yes, I do. You lot have other places to be than here."

"No, not until we're done. We aren't about to half-aft this job just because we're worried. Boss'll never let us live it down, especially if we can't even get there in time to  _do_ anything useful." There was an undertone to her voice that let him know that not doing anything at all bothered her greatly. "Leave him, we'll collect him when we're done. That heavy fataft can't move all that fast anyway."

Pulaski dipped his head in surrender. Her crew, her rules.

_"Come in Jammer."_

_"Go ahead."_

_"Cancel the last; they'll fetch him later."_

_"Copy that, he's still here anyhow. Do you want Rake back?"_

_"No, keep him too. He'll do more good up there anyhow."_ And then Pulaski caught sight of something that could well have been the poster image for all that had gone wrong today.

Two pairs of headlights, coming up the road from the lodge, and at a speed that implied a brief glimpse into hell. Bigger than your average pickup truck.

RVs.

_"Jammer, you are going to have two more guests on the way up behind you. I'll be right up after them."_

_"Jammer copies."_  If the old bus was curious about why there were still any patrons in this park at all, he didn't say it. Good; Pulaski would need a patient ear to rant into sometime in the near future.

Dynamite pulled herself as out of the roadway as she was able.

"Watch yourselves, guys. We have two more coming out fast."

Very fast. Too fast. Frightened or not, Pulaski was not about to have two top-heavy vehicles taking these turns on a narrow road at night at the speeds they were going. The last thing they needed tonight was for one of these now-rescued RVs to go careening down a ravine. He put himself square to them, not dead in front, but enough so that there would be no mistake whom he was addressing. At least his strobes made him stand out all the more.

"Sir, ma'am, I need both of you to slow down through here. It's not safe to be going so fast on these roads." At least one looked like they were going to open their mouth to object. Nope, not tonight. He cut them off as politely as the situation allowed. "We have a park ranger and two firefighters just up the road from here. That line isn't moving quickly; just take a deep breath, and keep on your way. You will catch up to the rest without any trouble."

Reasoning with people when they were in a panicked state tended to be either frustrating, pointless, or both, but fortunately Pulaski was big enough, and spoke calmly enough, that he was able to pierce through the hypothalamic sections of their brain to find their senses. Being a fire engine was also no small help. They didn't say anything more, both out of breath and clearly exhausted, and nodded almost mindlessly as Pulaski waved them on their way.

And with that, all his charges were—to the best of his knowledge—accounted for, unless there were  _more_  people out in the forest who hadn't heeded evacuation directions. Too late for that, now. At this point, if they decided to stay, they were on their own, bitter as that tasted to him.

The progress on the debris was moving swiftly. It wouldn't be much longer than an hour or so for the collapsed gate to be cleared. And then the jump team would be out; it was a long hike back to the lodge, especially for a group of earthmovers.

"Dynamite, I'm going to head up towards the staging area to start preparing for mutual aid. Does you chief want to establish command at your base, or should I do it at the grounds?"

"I… think he'd be rather appreciative if you took it. It's easy enough when it's just us, but it's hard to be IC for several hundred people when you're on the front lines."

He nodded.

"I gotcha. I'll wave your boy out when I reach him. If you need anything in particular, give me an hour or so then call me. Once we get logistics established, we can start starving this thing." And he gestured a tire at the fire all around them.

"Don't worry about us, we're pretty self-contained. You've got plenty on your plate regardless."

Pulaski leveled a look at her.

"So do you." And that really didn't need any elaboration.

"Yeah, but our mechanic's the best. We may be worried, but we're optimistic."

He liked this group, really. If the rest of the base brass was as level-headed as she was, it was no wonder how they managed to function as a tight group.

"Alrighty. Stay safe out here."

"You too. And hey… if you need us, you know who to call. We'll back you up, any time."

"I wouldn't want to impose." Pulaski found his pride squirming around a little at that, too, and he brushed it aside.

"Please. We don't have to deal with Spinner every day. You spearhead things at the lodge for us, and we'll call it an even trade. You look like you're more a people person than any of us; we'll barter your diplomacy for our resources."

On the one side, he didn't think that there was any compensation in the world that could account for having to expose his mental health to Cad's toxicity on a daily basis. On the other… he could have a whole airbase-worth of firefighters when things went down the scrapper. He found himself trying to stuff a smile, and failing.

"I think I can work with this."

It wouldn't be until a couple days later, as he and Rake crested the road into the base to the announcement of their tower and under the watchful stare of a red helicopter that sure as hell  _looked_  like a chief even from a couple hundred feet away (and "oh slag! Are those  _burns!?_ " "I'm sure he can hear us, Rake." But seriously, no wonder he had been "out"), and to some rather enthusiastic greeting from the jump team, that yes, Pulaski was sure he could work with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: And this is hideous because Pulaski was being oddly obstreperous about letting me write him. I've posted it anyways, because I can't even anymore. This was, when planned, going to be about twice as long as it is, but I figured Pulaski and Rake had been put through enough; they'll hafta have their meeting with Ryker and introduction to Blade some other time.
> 
> Words!
> 
> "Pump and Roll": A function performed by fire engines with PTOs (power take offs) on their drive system that allow them to flow water and drive at the same time. In real life, Pulaski would have no pump and roll capability; type one engines cannot do this. He can in the movie, though, so I'm letting him keep it, although it will be stunted in compared to wild land rigs and crash tenders who are built with this capability.
> 
> Crosslays/preconnect: Two broad types of hose loads. The words are sometimes used interchangeably, but in reality can be located on different parts of a rig, depending on the department. A crosslay is always a preconnect, but a preconnect is not always a crosslay. Pulaski has no visible crosslays in canon, they would be where the turret is (in front of the hose bed), but he does have compartments under that nozzle, so my HC is that his are stored in there (both crosslays and preconnects can be stored in compartments on an engine).
> 
> The irons: refers to two tools, the flathead axe and a halligan bar, that are paired/married together (often with straps). These are used in forcible entry to a building, extrication, or anywhere else heavy iron cutting, striking, or prying tools would be useful. Not common for wild land firefighters, but these are essential for any structural/urban firefighter to have handy constantly. No engine company will enter a building without them.
> 
> There are typos here, but I have been looking at this story for so long that I cannot see them without rest. I'll fix 'em when I find 'em.


	28. War Stories - Smokejumpers & Cabbie V

Sometimes Cabbie still found himself on the base in the off-season.

There wasn't really any need for it; most everyone else was gone, Blade and Maru duly excluded. Blade had made the park his permanent residence not long after his promotion. He enjoyed the relative quiet. A few local ski resorts benefitted from his presence too, since his SAR training and abundance of free time meant they could give him a call if they needed help locating missing people on the slopes. Rumor had it that he also maintained a residence outside the park, but no one had been able to back that up with any manner of solid proof. Maru  _did_  have a home off grounds, but often as not elected to stay at the base year round, with brief trips home for any number of reasons he made a point of not divulging. Unlike Charlie, Maru hadn't fostered any professional relationships for the off-season since… whew, probably since Charlie retired. It wasn't too late though; Cabbie was waiting for the day Maru would bring in some young upstart with no sense yet frightened into him, and somehow churn out a proper mechanic. The circle would complete itself one day, he'd put money on it.

In general, though, they both were content to putter around the base, minding small jobs here and there, and generally just enjoying a quiet vacation. Cabbie knew from first hand experience that they could spend an evening in the main hangar minding nothing in particular, Blade often with a book and Maru watching TV while fiddling with some device or another, and not having to say a word to each other in order to keep each other's company.

When the season ended, the smokejumpers tended to be the first ones out, eager to fly back home and reconnect with their families, friends, and whatever lives they had outside of the base. Dipper was not far behind them. Windlifter and Patch would each linger for a few days, Patch with honest paperwork to file before heading out, and Windlifter for no reason known by anyone. Maru did like to conscript his abilities for moving large pieces of equipment before he left. Cabbie himself often left with the jump team; very often  _with_  the jump team, dropping them en masse at the nearest major airport for their connections out. From there, he adjusted his bearings and headed home. Or, sometimes, simply turned right around and flew on back.

Occasionally, he just grew bored. After spending at least half the year waiting to roll when Patch sounded the alarm, long stretches of sedation felt odd. Oh, it was always nice for the first few weeks, but not having anything to do grew stale after that. There wasn't anything to actually  _do_  at the base, either, but for whatever reason it soothed his jitters. Maru took advantage of his relative inactivity to start restocking the bay for the next year. Sometimes he'd send Cabbie alone, sometimes he or Blade would accompany him for whatever reason, and once or twice all three of them had made an outing of heading out together to pick up supplies that Maru had on order.

It was sometimes almost uncomfortable to not have any noise on base; the kids filled up far more space then their compact forms would otherwise allow. There was always the possibility that they wouldn't make the trip back out, whether because of family, a base transfer, career change, or some other personal reason, but so far they had all regularly submitted the necessary paper intent to continue at Piston Peak, at varying stages of on-time to predictably tardy. Cabbie was sure, whenever the time came for one of them to call it quits, it wouldn't be before having a party thrown in their honor first. It was almost smokejumper tradition; you weren't allowed to leave the base without first getting so drunk that Blade served you a Punishing Lecture with a nice, cold side of Piercing Hangover.

Smoker's retirement party came to mind, but that had also been a special case.

Cabbie trundled slowly across the tarmac, headed for the complex opposite the aircraft hangars. Blade and Maru were both in the main hangar, doing who knew what. Cabbie didn't care so much, as long as they didn't mind him pushing his massive head in. He didn't know why, but he felt like some company. Maybe it was the season.

Sure enough, they were both parked in there comfortably, Blade with his nose firmly in a book, and Maru hummed to himself as he sat in front of what Patch had recently installed in the common space at the 'Base Computer.' It wasn't the newest machine out there, but she had rigged it well enough that anyone on duty could have easy access to their email or (heaven forbid) social media.

The smokejumpers had been pretty adamant about convincing Cabbie to get one of those stupid "pages" where everybody pretty much shared all the business that wasn't really important. No thanks, he didn't feel like clogging his life with a million messages about where random people had eaten lunch that day. Not that that argument had stopped the jumpers, and it only took them begging and pleading all day for him to break down and let them set on up for him.

"Now we can send you pictures, so you'll never miss us!" Drip had turned from the keyboard long enough to beam up at him.

Wasn't that just the  _best thing_. Pass the bottle of sarcasm, please.

Maru was clicking away at something when Cabbie entered, and he shot the massive plane a grin so heavily laced with…something, that Cabbie considered rolling right back out again.

"Is something wrong with your face?"

Maru just grinned harder.

"Yeowch, preemptive strike, huh? Don't worry, I ain't planning anything."

"The hell you aren't."

"Please, all the best targets are away for the winter. Which is exactly why you," and he gestured at Cabbie, "happen to be just the plane I want to see right now."

Cabbie let the words wash over him, and they just didn't make any sense. Not the first time.

"One more time, Maru, and with diction clear enough for me to understand why an empty base means you need to talk to me."

"Oh, don't worry, there won't be much talking at all. Here, just come look at this."

Cabbie could taste a great deal of suspicion bubbling up in the back of his throat. It also tasted like that sarcasm. Fitting.

"You know, the last time I did that, the kids were looking as some website called 'Four... Whatever,' and I saw some things that I cannot unsee."

"Heheheheheh, 'it was a trap!'"

"A what?"

"Nothing, just come take a look. Your kids sent me an email."

"Oh really."

"Yeah really. I haven't scrolled very far yet, I figured you should see them first, but I can be reasonably sure it isn't anything awful."

"And why is that?"

"You know, an aversion to all things digital is what marks you as old, Cabbie. I know it's for you, because the subject reads 'Maru: Please forward this to Cabbie because we are reasonably sure he's not checking what we're putting on his pages.'"

Well, the kids weren't wrong. He hadn't looked at the thing since they set it up.

And he did not have an aversion to all things digital; he firmly believed in the power of radar HUDs and GPS, thank you very much.

Cabbie snorted, more out of reluctant resignation than anything else, and loomed cautiously over Maru. Either he was really bored, or the prospect of seeing his crew in the off-season was just intriguing enough to summon Blade from the other side of the room. Cabbie's ampullae prickled when the chopper ducked around one of his wings.

A chain of four emails, sent only at most a few hours apart. The text at the top of the first one read "Happy New Year" in an almost ridiculously large, bold font. Some contained more than one photo, but each had one large group shot that captured the essence of the chain. They were all home, with their families, but had all felt it was appropriate to include each other—and the other residents of the base—in their festivities. Even sprawled across the country, and they were all still almost soldered together. Cabbie couldn't stop a soft chuff. It wasn't quite soft enough to make it past Maru.

"You wanna see it now?"

"Might as well. The hell if I remember whatever password they gave me for that thing."

Maru smirked and started clicking, slowly.

Blackout had posted first. Clear down in Florida, and the picture was still outside, in the daylight.

"By the Maker, did they start the New Years party at noon?"

Maru grinned.

"If the rest of his family plans a party the same way he does, I wouldn't put it past them."

There were a few pictures here an there with just Blackout and one or two of his relatives-ish ('ish,' because there was no way he was related to that Camaro he was attempting to outdrink), but the highlight was a massive group shot of his whole family. Cabbie had no way of knowing who was whom, but he could be reasonably sure that the older skid steer right on his flank was his mother, the gaggle after him were his six siblings, bookended by his father. Insert the rest of the family around them.

Blackout sure looked like his mom. It was nice, finally, to have a face to attach to those massive care packages that he would periodically receive throughout the year. It had become something of a running joke; when was his mom going to send another box? Would there be more food inside it? Did Blackout have the heart to share with the rest of his teammates, or should they start making plans to relieve him of it early?

Really, though, there was always food in the box. Blackout's mom seemed to be of the mind that if her oldest child was spending months out at a small base in the middle of the woods, that he was clearly starving all the time. And the hell if she wouldn't remedy that, even from thousands of miles away.

Dynamite had a massive family, too. A bit further up the east coast, her picture had been only a single giant panorama shot of everyone at their party. She was the exact opposite of Blackout; the baby of eleven kids ( _wow,_  Cabbie didn't even know what manner of saintly patience was required to raise eleven Dynamites), she had run to the forest service as an escape from the almost claustrophobic grip from her family. A pool churning with lawyers, surgeons, and other extremely well-to-dos, she had faced a great deal of pressure to continue the family line of stately professions. Clearly, though, the UTV genetics ran stronger in her than in the entire rest of her familial gene collection put together, and boy did it ever show (the rest were all clearly UTVs, but it didn't look like any of them had ridden over anything more rugged than a golf green in many, many years. Dynamite looked like a burly little beast by comparison). She had left home aiming for a degree in forestry, and then bounced immediately into doing grunt work in any park system that would take her. To hear Dynamite tell it, her parents had been… distinctly displeased in her choice of profession. In typical Dynamite fashion, she had told them where to stick it, and had eventually wiggled her way onto a hotshot crew just to spite them. It had been love at first sight, and she had arrived at Piston Peak not long after she learned that there were hotshot crews who did their jobs after first jumping out of planes. If anything would give her parents a right hernia, it was that.

It was nice, then, to see that she and her family were able to settle their differences at least long enough for her to come home in the winter. It showed in her face. Dynamite was absolutely terrible at forcing a smile, so Cabbie could be confident enough to bet the contents of his wallet that the massive grin stuck to her face was real.

Another couple clicks from Maru, and Cabbie was staring at a picture of what was most definitely the company party held every year by Avalanche's father's construction business. Indeed, Avalanche was right in the middle, sitting near two other track loaders that were even  _larger_  than himself. But since when had his eyes been  _brown?_

It took a moment to parse out exactly what he was looking at, and he almost felt his breath hitch. If Blade's soft whistle and Maru's less soft "oh, damn" were anything to go by, he hadn't been the only one.

There were four loaders in this picture, all with treads. They all sported the sticker with the company logo somewhere on their person, but only the one on the far left also brandished the red-orange paint and black smokejumper tattoo endemic to PPAA's jump team. Which meant that the one in the center was not Avalanche at all, but his  _father._

Cabbie hadn't ever seen family heritage run that thick in anyone. Avalanche had inherited his mother's green eyes, but there was no doubt who his sire was. If Cabbie had ever wanted to know what the kid was going to look like in thirty years, this was probably as good a representation as he was going to get. Avalanche had turned out larger than his father (both sons had, really), but the resemblance between him and his parent was almost spookily striking. Good to know that 'Lanche would be keeping that lopsided To Hell With It smirk that was almost permanently applied to his face, no matter how old he got. The loader opposite from Avalanche then was undoubtedly his older brother, right next to their mother. Entirely contrary to Avalanche, the elder child was an almost perfect blend of the traits from both parents, which created an interesting if powerfully built mix of Bobcat and Caterpillar. He was painted in the company livery; appropriate, as he was set to inherit it upon his parents' eventual retirement. This suited Avalanche just fine; he'd much rather have a job that chipped his paint and wore his treads and knocked him straight into a content if exhausted slumber every night. Which was probably why he always slapped a temporary sticker on his flank and went to work for his parents in the winter. Let them all have the paperwork; he'd rather rough it with the crews outside.

Good to see he had an outlet for his excess energy. If his parents didn't keep him occupied, then those fierce Midwestern snowstorms would. Because if Cabbie was completely honest, he didn't believe for one minute that his parents put him to work on a construction site in the middle of the winter. Whatever they were having him do, it was most likely some variation of shoveling snow.

The next set was mostly a large collection of selfies, but there was at least one group shot. Pinecone was stuck squarely in the middle of a massive gaggle of telehandlers, lifts, cranes, and dozers, what looked like far more than just her immediate family. Cabbie did not have a hard time placing which ones were her parents or siblings, because she was not shy about pictures (he had never asked, but she had left them out often enough that he had caught more than a few glimpses). The cheeky red one in the center was Pinecone, no doubt, surrounded by her brother and sisters. She'd been raised in the deep South, in a small town where everyone knew everyone else's business, and your closest neighbors may well also be your family. Of course, everyone at the base knew Pinecone's business too, since it had followed her out one season. That had been nasty, for several different reasons. Ever since, Pinecone had returned each year, grateful to be away from the mother who insisted on trying to play matchmaker to "help" her daughter. It had to be particularly meddlesome, if leaping headlong towards infernos that could toast a forest was considered a break from the nonsense. Pinecone just shrugged it off as Middle Child Problems, even if her teammates volunteered to pretend to be her fake harem, if only to scandalize her family. Unlike Dynamite, who would have jumped at the chance, Pinecone has responded with an ever polite "no, thank you."

Hmph, "polite" Cabbie's aft; she was resembling the rest on the jump team more with each passing summer. One day, she may take them up on the offer, just for the laughs.

The last photo was taken on the beach, also a selfie. Drip was spending New Years with his parents and family friends, apparently at a bonfire. Cabbie had to admit, he preferred an open-air party to spending a holiday tightly packed inside a building with a bunch of other people he only saw once a year. Forget the snow, that San Diego beach looked rather nice. Drip was wearing his usual brilliant smile, flanked by proud parents who were overjoyed that their son had make it back from his summer job, once again in one piece. An only child, Drip had eagerly attached himself to the rest of the team, trying to wriggle himself into their social circle. It hadn't been hard; Avalanche had never been a big brother, but Blackout had, and for Drip's first year of deployment the Tres Amigos were a right terror around the base. Smoker seemed to find it hilarious. Cabbie remembered rolling passed Drip one morning while he on FOD duty, merrily picking around for debris. Boggled Cabbie's mind; FOD was  _boring._  Drip had just smiled at him.

"The base always feels so busy. Is this what having siblings is like? It's cool! Sure, you can't eat all the snacks, sometimes they drive you nuts and you don't get any privacy, but other than that, hey!"

Upbeat little trooper, no joke.

Cabbie sighed, and resisted the urge to relax into his main gear. That had been… remarkably refreshing. He generally had very little idea what they were up to when they weren't all but glued to his sides, but it was nice to see them in good spirits.

 _Now we can send you pictures, so you'll never miss us!_ Cabbie bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Clever little scamps.

"Your kids are adorable."

Cabbie chuffed. And some scamps grew up to become Maru, who seemed to be developing some rudimentary form of telepathy as he aged. Not that the old Fairchild had any intention of letting him believe he was right.

"They're too old to be adorable."

Maru didn't look like he was ready to purchase the bridge Cabbie was trying to sell him.

"Even Pinecone? She's still pretty young. Younger than Drip, crazy as that sounds."

"Drip is gonna have that baby face until he's forty." Cabbie shot Maru a sideways look. "And if you knew about the cackling imp hiding behind Pinecone's expression, you'd know she's not cute either."

"Oh really?"

This conversation felt familiar, but somehow in reverse.

"Yes really. Imps, all of them."

"Well here, let's send your imps a reply." Maru adjusted a device attached to the top of the monitor. "Smile into the camera."

That teeny tiny thing on top of the monitor was a camera? Maru had said something about a trap, and  _boy,_  was that a clever one.

"Oh no. No, no."

"Oh  _yes._  They want to know what you're up to."

"How do you know?"

"Because they took time out of their holiday parties to share pictures with you. Which they then sent to me,  _specifically so I would share them with you._ "

"Hmph."

"Trust me. It would give them an absolute thrill. Look, you and Blade can even be grumps in it together."

Blade gave an indignant grunt from somewhere under Cabbie's wing.

"Why the hell do I have to be in it?"

"Because you're going to keep Cabbie from escaping out your way."

Cabbie gave Blade a suspicious squint.

"I should have known you were in on this together." Some things never changed, no matter how time passed.

Blade gave him a flat look.

" _I_ should have known, because I'm finding out about it just like you are."

"Good, then you can move and let me out."

The look that flickered across the chopper's red his face had become rare in recent years, but it still roused all of Cabbie's danger!instincts. Abort mission now, fool.

"Well, when you put it that way… fire this thing up, Maru."

Everybody on this base was a right young punk with no respect for their elders. He was sure that if Patch and Windlifter were still around right now, they would be no better help. That was somewhat relieving; that particular duo produced such bouts of utter and complete lark that tended to also be recorded on upwards of three different devices, to be preserved and hidden for posterity.

"Great, get in here close, both of you. Try to at least remember what smiling feels like. The webcam will give us a countdown so that you both can loosen those scowling faces back up."

"I'm going to bite you, Maru." Cabbie was sorely tempted. He hadn't descended to such an infantile reaction to Maru's tripe in a very long time, but the urge was growing. Blade chuckled.

"You should. You should bite him. Serves him right."

"Blade, I swear if you convince a forty ton warplane to bite me, I'll—"

*click*

There was silence in the hangar for a moment.

"…Dammit."

"Wasn't there supposed to be a countdown?"

"Yes."

"You're terrible at this. If that had been a grenade, we'd have all just died."

"Like you could have done any better."

"Maru has clearly drunk enough that he forgot what counting is."

"Hardee-har, Blade."

"Haha, one, two, five… nine…asterisk… sailboat… starfish… pudding."

"Funny, Cabbie. Very funny."

"Ain't it just?"

"Come on, move those tines. I wanna see how awful that came out."

Maru grumbled, but was able to fill the screen with a large photo. The three of them, clearly not looking at the camera as they snarled at each other. A quick glance would peg it as the usual exchange; the curled lips and bared teeth meant nothing when placed alongside Blade's slack rotors and the easy sideways tilt of Cabbie's wings. The culmination of their winter so far, captured in one accidental photograph.

"Wow."

"Is that the picture it took?"

"Yeah."

Cabbie chewed his cheek again, but the smile came regardless this time. Sure, it was awkward, but Cabbie found himself disinclined to take another one.

"… it's perfect."

And judging from the responses that Maru received in his inbox the next day, the kids thought so too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be out for Christmas, and then maybe New Years, but traveling makes writing hard, so it is here now. My bad.
> 
> Insert obligatory typo warning here.


	29. War Stories - Blade & Maru III

Blade winced on his gear, stretching out the tightness in his struts that had formed while his eyes were boring into the massive incident map sprawled messily across the floor of his hangar. He looked up and out one of his windows. The sky was already starting to redden, a marked contrast to the last time he had seen daylight. That late, already? No wonder he saw double if he looked out farther than about twice his own length. The worsening light wasn't helping, especially not for trying to read the tiny print and red bullets all over the map. His clock told him it had been at least four hours since the last time he had left his hangar, or even looked at another soul on his base. He snorted to himself. They were all adults; much as he sometimes felt the contrary, they could handle themselves without his constant piercing supervision. Which was good, because he was still up to his hub in the paperwork from the Coil Springs Fire. He had set it aside for the couple days they had taken off to attend Dusty's Corn Festival (admittedly, Blade hadn't been  _quite_  as reluctant to leave the park to attend, once the immediate crisis was over; it had been… a very long time since he'd seen his old trainer, and Mayday seemed genuinely happy to see him), and it felt like that stack hadn't diminished in the slightest in the following couple weeks. The last reports were still trickling in from smaller departments who had contributed personnel for the fight, which meant that Blade could eventually compile the remaining records from his base before sending it off to the state for audit. At least he hadn't been IC for this incident, on the account of being either unconscious or in crippling agony when it was established. County fire had the brunt of the work, and a few of their crews were still in the field here and there, tending to the mop-up. Himself and Champ duly excluded, he hadn't received any other reports of notable injuries or accidents. All his own made it in once piece and relatively high spirits, which was all he could really ever ask for.

And then his innards made him aware that he should probably head out to inquire about something to eat. He was all set to ignore it, but an attempt to focus back on the landscape of files merely made his eyes swim and stare blankly into space. Okay, if not for food, he should at least break for coffee. Being able to say that he had ingested  _something_  in the last few hours had the added benefit of keeping Maru off his back.

Sighing, and carefully nosing several hefty stacks of reports out of the way (and these were just from his people, sheesh), he nudged open his hangar door. While the fire had done a number on the park and Blade's downtime, its wake had left the rest of the base remarkably relaxed. The smokejumpers took their turns with visiting crews minding the firebreaks for rekindles, but the ashen forests and meadows left nothing for lightning to ignite, and the lack of campers meant that there were no runaway fire pits to give them a little hell. Mudslides were going to be a serious issue when they got rain in the fall, but even long daytime hours spent shoring roads and breaks still had the entire jump team back home before nightfall. They were enjoying their evenings on base. Cabbie's duties were justifiably light, since if the smokejumpers didn't have to leave base, neither did he, and command logistics no longer needed an extra shuttle for supplies. Windlifter split his time between overseeing the jump team while they were out, and silently helping Blade sift through the paperwork (or, sometimes, just being a patient ear for Blade to pitch a frustrated rant into). Dipper probably had it the easiest; with no flames, she didn't have any drops to make, and hadn't left the base for a couple days.

Well, unless her…  _distraction_  led her elsewhere. Dusty had been let off the leash long enough to head back out their way; according to Mayday, just sitting at nice, quiet Propwash Junction made him wiggly and fidgety and borderline irritable when he  _knew_  there was hard work being done out at PPA.

That, and that was the fire that had laid him up. Blade did understand getting right side up again with a burning desire to finish what he started (morbid pun entirely unintended). If he wanted to work, Blade wouldn't tell him no.

Dipper, though, clearly thought he had returned for other, less professional reasons. She was about one foul away from getting a nice dose of "come to my office so we can talk about something called harassment." Blade had never had to give such an admonishment to any crewmember in his life, and he  _really_ didn't feel like doing it any time soon; he could only hope that Dipper was taking each of his cold, prickly glares to heart.

Speaking of, she and Dusty were currently nose-first in the smokejumper huddle at the cliff end of the taxiway. Since the smokejumper huddle did not often include aircraft, both because aircraft found dirt ramps simultaneously a chore and a bore, and because all but the larger aircraft were unwilling to risk damaging their comparatively thin skins on solid, compact earthmovers, both air tankers' presence meant that the ideas being pitched were either entirely benign or of horrific mischief. There was little in-between that Blade could fathom. Not far from the brewing shenanigans, Cabbie was in his hangar, doors flung open to let the cooling evening air in. This soothed Blade's twitching precognition somewhat. The smokejumpers wouldn't dare risk hatching a plan within range of the Fairchild's deceptively good hearing. Unless, of course, the massive lug was in on it, but Blade didn't even want to consider what would come of that. He could feel the rhythmic thud at his back as Windlifter hoisted logs. Since the Skycrane did the bulk of his workouts in the early morning, catching him on his lift at this hour was generally a sign of either stress or boredom. Blade was leaning strongly towards the latter.

He could smell coffee even before clearing the tower, which meant that someone else foresaw several more hours of work ahead of them. Considering the lack of noise from the maintenance bay, Blade figured that Maru was eyes-deep in one project or another, with breaks only to replenish his steady supply of caffeine.

Sure enough, the purple tug was at the counter when Blade arrived, idly tapping his empty mug as he watched the machine percolate, staring off into space and whistling no tune in particular. Maru stopped long enough to shoot Blade a lightweight smirk.

"Well, look who's still alive. Haven't lobotomized yourself with a pen yet trying to push through all that mess on your floor?"

"Nope. It's bad, but it ain't worth death." Blade gave the coffee maker the briefest inspection. Maru must have just gotten started; the pot had barely anything in it. "And I have a desk."

"Yeah, but if your hangar looks anything like it did after the Rail Ridge Fire, all that stuff has spilled over onto your floor, where it is likely going to stay until it is filed by the proper authorities."

Blade would concede this one; Maru knew him too well anyways, and he wanted to save his energy for a verbal joust that was worth the effort.

"I like having the space to see everything."

"Says the air boss." Maru snorted, and prodded the coffee pot like it would make it do its job faster. "Something about old habits and their difficulty to kill."

"At least mine are constructive."

Maru fixed him with a look somewhere between amusement and irritation.

"Was that supposed to be a dig at something?"

"I don't know, you tell me." Blade kept his face neutral. Let Maru take that as he wanted to. Fortunately, the tug seemed more inclined to keep the mood light than loose the mighty bitter and well-battled alternative.

"One of these days, I am going to spike your drink with something amazing."

Amazingly horrible, more like. Blade would almost feel safer drinking paint thinner.

"I would really rather you didn't."

"Oof, am I having difficulty caring about that. You haven't had a real drink in years."

"Not since that  _incident_  that we will never speak of again, for reasons." "That incident" being an evening spent being young, stupid, and not really worrying about having a signed will in place. Almost thirty years ago, when neither had developed any set borderline destructive coping mechanisms, just two rookies discovering a stash of something they should have had the wherewithal to leave right alone. Oh, they had paid for that  _dearly._  With more cleaning, if either could believe it. "Besides, someone's gotta save you from yourself."

"Well, that clearly can't be me, because I'm too busy saving  _you._ " Maru flicked his eyes to Blade's flank before giving him a pointed stare. Blade met it evenly, for all the good it did him, and Maru only gave ground to fetch the Agusta a cup for coffee.

"I feel fine, Maru."

"I bet, as fine as you'll let yourself feel without going back to work." Maru topped Blade off first, before throwing the rest into his own cup.

"I'm still not sure if you're doubting your ability or my constitution." Blade took a slow sip off the edge. Say what you want about Maru's coffee, but if you needed a hard shot of caffeine to the brain, there was none better. He swore he could feel his tongue tingle.

"Neither, because I'm not an idiot. I only doubt your ability to rest."

"Pot. Kettle. Black."

"Yeah, but it feels easier to address in someone else."

"Here here. I'll drink to that."

"Really?"

"Coffee."

"You bore me sometimes."

* * *

Patch was idly typing at her keyboard when her radio crackled. It was over her specific tower frequency, not the broader base channels, which caused only the slightest quirk of her brow as she keyed her mic. Incoming off-base aircraft? Possibly. Lodge tower? Possible too.

_"Air Attack Tower."_

That voice sounded so familiar, like smelling the inside of your house after a long trip, but she didn't dare jump to conclusions yet. Her core clenched a bit in… apprehension?

_"Go ahead for Tower."_

_"VX238, about twenty miles south-by-southwest, wondering if there's a clear helipad available for me."_

Damn, that sure explained the subconscious apprehension. Patch's eyes widened, and she had to set down her tea, just to make sure she didn't spill it in the wave of memories that surged forth. She didn't bother to hide her grin.

_"There is, but I don't think that the lack of one would have deterred you in the slightest."_

_"No, it would not have, but I figured it pays to be polite."_

Yeah, and the smelting pools had icebergs. Well, there was a first time for everything, she supposed.

_"Really?"_

_"Sometimes, yes. Occasionally. Maybe. Only for a few people."_

She made sure she wasn't keying her mic when she laughed. Like she didn't believe the old bird didn't still had razor edges on his everything.

_"Shall I call you out, or let it be a surprise?"_

_"I was going to let it be a surprise, but I find that fear is so much sweeter when allowed to stew in anticipation for even a short time."_

Wow. Still an evil old cuss, too.

_"Retirement hasn't changed you at all."_

_"I'll change when I'm dead."_

And somehow, that made Patch incredibly happy.

_"Copy that. Welcome home, sir."_

_"Thank you. It feels great already."_

Patch printed her report, scrambled for her things, and keyed the base PA. She wanted to be outside to watch when this evening's entertainment decided to land.

* * *

The occupants of the main hangar had just settled into an easy few moments of silence and coffee, when Patch queued the speakers.

_"Attention all firefighters, we have an unscheduled arrival headed for the helipads, please keep clear. Be advised: VX238 is coming home to roost."_

Something deep inside of Blade bubbled up and into his rotor shaft, clenching in his hub and pulling his rotors towards his tail. He took a deep breath, and relaxed them back out again. Holy hell, what was that about? His mind clamored for a name to attach to the call number, and in turn tack a name to whatever had just washed out of his subconscious. No luck, he was fresh out of ideas. VX, though? Huh, no one on or around the base had used a 'v' in their call sign since—

Oh, for the love of Chrysler.

He could feel the slackness in his face that he was pretty sure was genuine surprise, especially if it was at all similar to the expression currently overtaking Maru. The tug was a shade more vocal about it.

"She has got to be slagging kidding."

"Patch may be Windlifter's greatest conspirator, but she tends to keep the tomfoolery away from her tower. I think she is dead serious." Blade left his coffee in the hangar and poked his prow out of the door. Maru joined him, mug clutched in his tines. If he listened, Blade could hear it; the low, reverberating sound of rotors rumbled in through the trees, bouncing off the rock face behind the base. Tandems were always loud, but whether on purpose or by fluke of birth, this particular set of blades had always been especially raucous. From where he sat, he could see Cabbie rouse from inside his hangar, head poking out of the wide threshold. Even at this distance, Cabbie met his gaze with a widening smirk that was so carnivorous that he resisted shifting on his gear. Not fair; the old carrier shouldn't be allowed to enjoy this. Blade glanced towards the tower, in time to catch Patch before she made her way out. She grinned, and keyed the PA again.

_"Emergency procedures are in full effect, boss. King Vortex is back."_

* * *

"King Vortex?"

Dusty had no idea what to make of the activity on the other end of the base proper, nor the looks exchanged between the smokejumpers. Cabbie had his head out of his hangar, gaze pinned to Blade even clear across the base, and sporting a smile that Dusty really hadn't ever fathomed being associated with him. It was enough that the jumpers took notice, to a wide variety of reactions.

Dipper leaned in towards him, causing his wingtip to connect with her flank. Oh, he did wish she weren't so close all the time…

"That sounds like the former chief, Gustav Vortex. He was in charge here before Blade, but I've never heard him referred to as 'king' before."

"That's because he wasn't so much a king as a fiery tyrant." Dynamite had squeezed out of the huddle of her teammates, shooting a wry look at where Blade and Maru conversed with each other while watching the sky. "At least, that's what I gathered by piecing together what I've been able to weasel out of any of the old men. And he was indeed  _in charge_  of the base before promoting Blade, and he made sure everyone knew it."

"So he wasn't on the Wall, then."

"No, he retired in the nineties. I think Patch was the last one on base hired under his command. The rest of us came after." Dynamite cast him a smirk. "Funny you mention the Wall, though. To hear Maru or Blade tell it, that was his idea, and his pet project. The oldest photos on the board are of people lost under his watch."

Well, wasn't that a sobering thought.

"Oh. It's uplifting in a way though, right? If even that kind of guy cares enough about his teammates to memorialize them in his base?"

"Uplifting is not generally a adjective I'd assign to Chief Vortex, but you'll be able to form your own opinions when you meet him. Which you should do at a moderately safe distance. Trust me on this. After a few minutes with Vortex, Blade's cool demeanor will be a balm on the burns."

The omnipresent rumble soon solidified to one identifiable source, coming in high over the trees surrounding the base. A hefty helicopter, sized about halfway between Blade and Windlifter, but the two rotor hubs and highly distinctive frame made him seem bigger. Probably because his length didn't include a tail. He had a red belly and a mostly-white hull, never mind the other markings scattered across his plating.

"He's bigger'n Blade, too." Pinecone peered from under Dipper's wing. "Bigger  _and_  scarier? I didn't think it was possible."

"They're exaggerating somewhat." Cabbie made the move from his hangar, meandering slowly towards the helipads on the other side of the airstrip. He canted his head in said direction, and the smokejumpers fell in right behind him. Dusty felt it was prudent to follow suit.

"Easy for you to say, because he likes you." Dynamite huffed, increasing her pace until she was under Cabbie's wing.

"Easy for me to say, because I have also worked with him longer than anybody else here." And there wasn't anyone able to refute that. Dynamite dipped her head in concession. "No matter how much they may whisper about him, he's not the devil incarnate. Not quite, anyways. Sure, he was a harsh, demanding, picky chief who liked things done his way. He doesn't do 'feelings', and his first task for new recruits is to test the thickness of their skin. Not everyone has the fortitude, self-confidence, or stubbornness to survive the process. And he won't apologize for it, either. If you manage to make it to the other side of his conditioning without breaking, then as far as he's concerned you came out better for it." Cabbie dipped a wing, and Dusty could just about hear the wry smirk. "He reminds me of several drill instructors I've had. He would have been a nightmare in the service."

If Dusty were perfectly honest, that description could have been put to Blade, too.

He pulled up as close to Cabbie as he could; big plane took up the entire taxiway with his huge wings, so unless Dusty wanted to roll through the green space he'd have to settle for having a conversation with the warplane's ailerons.

"Is that why you got along so well?"

Cabbie gave a thoughtful hum.

"It was more of a mutual respect kind of thing, I suppose. The fire service is paramilitary, always has been. I respected his rank, and his authority on his base. In return, he gave me my space, and went out of his way to ensure my privacy. When it comes down to business, he doesn't yank your chain. There's no beating around the bush with Gustav; he'll tell it to you frank what he wants. I like that. Do it, and you won't have any problems from him." Cabbie paused his roll, and watched as the Vertol descended over the helipads. Windlifter had disentangled himself from his lift, and was already at the base of the tower.

If Dusty didn't know any better, the somewhat conflicting accounts would leave him moderately confused. But he could attribute it to how Mayday thought about Blade. " _That boy's always had a serious bent, but he's nice._ " Not  _quite_  how Dusty would describe the air boss, but from Mayday's point of view, it was right on the money. He should pinch all this salt a little harder, he supposed.

"So he was mean, but not quite as mean as we've so far been led to believe?"

"I wouldn't call it mean. Proud, and opinionated, and blunt, and hot tempered. When combined, it does resemble something just shy of villainy. It's hard to earn his respect. But once you have it, you'll know it. His affection is almost painfully rough, but he always looks after his own." That decidedly sharp smirk edged its way back onto his face. "Which is why we're over here until he lands. Best way to avoid even a friendly lashing is to let him find someone more fun to grief. Fortunately, we still have two of his favorites in attendance."

"Blade and Maru were his favorites?"

"Of sorts, yes." A soft snort, and Cabbie side-eyed all of them. "Here's how this evening is going to go down: old chopper is going to land, he's going to catch sight of Blade and Maru, and he is going to have at them. It is going to be loud and borderline vicious. Blade and Maru aren't pushovers anymore, so you can bet they are going to give as good as they get. It may sound nasty, and it may sound mean spirited, but this is as close to saying 'hello, how've you been, happy to see you' as any of them are able to get with each other." There was a muttered 'oh, the hypocrisy' from somewhere near Cabbie that may have been Drip, and the massive plane duly ignored it. "If the jibe isn't aimed at you, leave it. Trust me; make yourself a suitable target for GT's attention and you  _will_  get it. More than you wanted."

"You can't be serious." Pinecone was out by Cabbie's wingtip. "No one's got the chops to really lay into Blade, except Maru, just because, and Cad because he was an idiot. It's basically suicide to challenge both of 'em together."

"Then I suggest you stay out of the line of fire, because it's about to get lively out here." Cabbie's smirk didn't lessen in the slightest. "And if you kids have any popcorn stashed away somewhere, please let me know. I feel a craving coming on."

* * *

Of all the things Maru expected to happen today, a visit from his old boss was far enough down the list that it rubbed sides with flying deere farting rainbows and Drip declaring that he was spending the rest of his life as a Sea-Doo. It had been a long time since he had shown his face near the crew. The last had been at Theo's memorial. Most of the younger crewmembers had only met him once (or twice, if you were any of the three elder smokejumpers around long enough to remember Lucas). Pinecone hadn't been around at all, then. Dusty too, now that they could include him in the roster. From where they idled next to Cabbie on the other side of the airstrip, he could hope the old propjob was at least giving them a short heads up. GT was a lot to handle, if you didn't know what to expect.

Hell, he was a lot to handle even if you  _did_  know what to expect. The last two meetings with the old Vertol had been rather subdued, due to circumstances. Similar to his careful crafting of the Wall, he held a great deal of respect for the most somber of events held for firefighters, especially if they were one of his own. He kept his lashing tongue firmly to himself, at both events, at least outside of the hilarious eulogy he gave for Lucas.

It was one of the events that sealed his opinion of the Vertol, for what Maru assumed would be the rest of his adult life. He might be rougher than amorous relations with a rockslide, but even when Maru knew the chief was mad as hell at him for one thing or another, he was never left to fend for himself. An earlier incident, where Maru was cleaning the aprons around the main complex for getting sloppy with his work, when some firefighters from a neighboring base deigned to give the young tug a little flack. Maru had kept his mouth shut, didn't want to appear rude to the mutual aid who were helping pull their afts out of the fire, but Vortex had no such problems. Watching a pair of Firehawks run for their lives from a snarling Chinook made the rest of his day go by easier. Similarly, when Blade was completely honest with his desire to disappear into obscurity, GT became very good about cutting off and diverting prodding questions about the oddly familiar Agusta stationed on his base. He may have never said it, but if it mirrored the tiny flicker in Maru's own soul, then Blade fully appreciated the effort.

Maru took another burning swig of coffee. What was that taste in his mouth? Respect? Put that back in the shadows of his psyche, where he could nurse it in secret. He didn't want to get all softy-feely now; GT could smell holes in armor from a thousand feet, and he had some inborn, carnivorous instinct to put teeth in them.

Without a funeral to act as a muzzle, Maru was expecting tonight to become Armageddon's Circus. They didn't even know why the old man was here, just poof! Drops out of the sky, with only Patch to herald his arrival. Cabbie was grinning like crazy, Patch not quite as crazy, and who even knew what was going on inside Windlifter's head. He heard Blade sigh next to him, whether out of resignation or steeling himself for the coming storm was not for him to guess. Not that there was any time to guess.

Maru stuffed a sigh of his own and took a hard swig of coffee. Too bad it was just coffee.

"Well, this is happening, whether we're ready or not."

"Yeah, let's make sure we greet him before he eats anyone." Blade shifted slightly on his gear. "You think if I tell him that I have an incident's worth of paperwork all over my floor, he'll let us off easy?"

"Not on your life."

"Yeah, you're probably right." There was a brief pause as they watched the tandem set his tires on the deck. If Maru hadn't known what to look for, he'd have missed the slight quirk to the corner of Blade's mouth. "If he saw the mess, he'd probably make us clean it up."

"Do not even joke about that." He almost hadn't made it through that month of Extreme Probation with Blade. If GT had been trying to break his will, that had very nearly done it.

"Hey, I was there too. If anyone has the right to joke about it, it's me."

"You're not allowed to have fun with this." Never mind Cabbie, who seemed to sense their impending doom, and faced it with all the amusement of someone who knew he was going to come out of it unscathed.

"Neither are you."

"I'm not. At least, not yet, and not with coffee."

"You're terrible on purpose."

"Better than being a bore."

They were not being quiet. Even if they were, with his engines slowly winding down and his enviably good ears, they had attracted GT's attention like black on tar. It burned like tar, too; even well into his retirement, and almost twenty years since the old tandem had left his base in Blade's care, and his eyes still bore holes right through him. But then again, he did that to everyone.

Maru hid a curse behind his coffee mug as he watched that distinctive, sharp-edge smirk cut its way across GT's face. The coffee mug may also have conveniently hidden a much smaller mirror to it.

"Oh, by Chrysler. You kids haven't shut up  _yet_?"

Right out the gate, and it was already a race. Maru was determined that if the old tyrant was going to run him under, then he was at least going to do some damage to that undercarriage on the way down.

"Hey now, don't you have a throne in hell to lounge on, old man?"

Blade snorted, which did a pretty good job of covering up that raspy snicker.

"He probably got tired of devouring the souls of the damned while listening to the lamentations of his subjects."

If anything, Gustav's wide smirk got more wicked.

"It ain't a bad life, really. But I did hear that a small bit of hell reared up to take a couple bites out of you all."

Blade gave a tired grunt of acknowledgement. It was not alone amongst the loose huddle around the helipad.

"You know, then?"

"I know from whatever tripe gets broadcast on the news, and from what Jammer told me on my way in. Never mind the ashes I flew over." His wide smirk fell off, and he leveled a piercing look at Blade "I heard you ate it pretty good."

An understatement. It was hard to know what Jammer had told him, GT had been his acquaintance since  _he_  was new at the park, and the tandem was being surprisingly unabrasive about his injury. Maru wondered if the knowledge of how close Blade had come to death was enough to tame his vocabulary a bit.

Blade canted his head slightly in affirmation.

"Yeah, it was an experience. I don't care to repeat it."

"I hope not. Chopper rotisserie isn't any fun to fix," Maru muttered from around his cup.

"I'll try to keep that in mind the next time my choices are reduced to 'death' and 'possible death'."

"Just try not to turn your insides into slag next time."

"Trust me; no one wants my innards intact more than  _me._ "

GT's wide smirk took on the faintest glimmer of something Maru didn't feel like putting a name to, because it would make him happier than he would ever care to admit.

"You kids haven't changed a bit."

More than forty years later, and this guy's approval still made Maru borderline giddy. Dammit, if the universe had any mercy, it would give him a nice, dark hole to hide in and hiss angrily from.

"Neither have you."

Blade gave a resigned sniff.

"It's all the souls he eats, I'm telling you."

Bless Blade for the save in conversation. That was already far closer to anything mushy than Maru felt like being to the old tandem. Good thing he always had being a recalcitrant slagger to fall back on.

"And I hate to tell you, chief, but we didn't get any younger when you left. The mantle of 'kids' has been passed on down the chain."

GT spared just the briefest glance over at the smokejumpers and Dipper (and  _Dusty,_  and heck if his gaze didn't linger long enough to let Maru know that the helo knew  _exactly_  who he was), before raking back over Maru.

"You can pass it on when I'm no longer around to remember when you were a pair of upstarts swabbing my base."

"Hurry up and get senile then, you old bastard."

Blade snorted to cover up another snicker. He almost failed, that time.

GT rolled his eyes at the two of them, before firmly redirecting his gaze to Patch. She returned his attention with a smile and a smart nod. She didn't have the same flinch-worthy memories of GT that he and Blade did. While a side effect of being stuck in the tower meant a slight disconnect from the other happenings around the base, it also meant that she had been sheltered from the worst of GT's acidic moods. Not that she hadn't caught her own share of hell, but she was mostly subjected to the Flash and Evaporate variety of the Vertol's ire. Patch's world was all airwaves, weather history, and barometric readings, simultaneously spread across several monitors and maps at once. Not GT's forte, and he didn't interfere once she proved herself entirely capable. He could read weather reports and predict fire activity as well as any other firefighter, but Maru highly suspected that he read Patch's daily reports as thoroughly as Blade did, and was entirely satisfied with having someone on base to file concise, accessible logs every night.

"Hey, lady. You're looking pretty alright."

Patch gave a casual shrug.

"I am. This is still the best post around."

"Even without me?"

"I find ways to manage."

GT snorted, and canted his head towards Blade and Maru.

"You keeping these lunkheads in line?"

She cocked a brow, and shot a quick look over at both CO and CMO.

"With all due respect, sir, I don't know how  _I'm_  supposed to keep  _Blade_  and  _Maru_  in line with anything."

"Psh, they ain't nearly as fierce as you think they are. Don't let them grief you."

"They don't really give me any grief, since they tend to run out of that on each other."

"Ha! Atta girl."

Seriously, GT had always been softer on her than with anyone else. Not just him; maybe it was because Patch was the one on base that was the closest to carrying a "civilian" label, but she was also the only one to call Theodore "Teddy"  _and get away with it._

GT continued down the line, and he and Windlifter had a quiet battle of gazes. Maru remembered when they had acquired the Skycrane. Never mind being such a burly sucker, but he was borderline silent even with the Vertol's characteristic "welcome" to the newbs. Windlifter had never batted an eye at a single thing, to the chief's express surprise. And joy. Hell if he didn't lord that over ever recruit he took in since.

"Windlifter."

"GT."

"…you psychic yet?"

"No."

"Damn."

And he moved on. Maru used to be jealous at how easily the Sikorsky could shrug through GT's paint-stripping attention, and how it did exactly what it was intended to do: make Windlifter so boring to wrassle that the chief moved on to other, thinner-skinned targets.

His next target, though, was not so thin-skinned, and was  _still_  sporting a smirk that wiser people wouldn't stand in front of. Justly, the smokejumpers were under the Fairchild's wings, which served to shield them from both participants. Smart kids.

GT's toothy grin returned full force.

"Hey there, you old crustbucket."

"Welcome back, flying rustbag."

"Not dead yet?"

"You first, please. I still have a job to do."

GT huffed, but the grin continued unabated.

"I almost can't believe you're still out here."

Cabbie gave an idle quarter-turn of his propellers.

"Eh. Kids still need to get to work, and I've tried resting. Got bored about a month in."

"You would. Don't break a wing getting the little mudrunners out there, though."

"They ain't as bad as they look."

Blackout gave a half sputter.

"Oh, really, now? You always tell us we're getting too heavy."

Cabbie gave a noncommittal grunt.

"I lied. I'm just slowly getting older."

GT turned his sharp smirk to Blackout who, to his credit, just  _barely_  flinched under the scrutiny.

"Don't worry; this guy's still got enough fire left in him to handle anything you've got. Try him, sometime."

The Fairchild hissed softly, and gave the jumpers nearest to him the stink eye.

"Don't, unless you want me to teach you how to swim in the lake."

Gustav snickered, and Dynamite gave a dramatic roll of her eyes.

"I told you he actually likes you."

A barking laugh from the old tandem.

"And what's not to like? I appreciate anyone who can follow my orders, work long hours, and then still have energy to kick my aft in the evening."

That caused shifting glances between the jumpers, and a few looked at Cabbie with what could have been a skewed sense of awe.

"You kicked his aft?" Pinecone half whispered out of the side of her mouth.

"No, I did not." Cabbie's grin had fallen to something far more neutral, like he could feel the slag storm coming. So could Maru, especially if he was right about what would fall out of GT's mouth next. Good; if Blade and Maru had to sit through Gustav throwing their past history around, then Cabbie could sift through some of his old dirt too.

GT pinned Pinecone with a grin dangerous enough to get her to squeak.

"He did whup my cousin, though."

" _YOU BEAT UP HIS COUSIN!?_ " Avalanche stared at the Fairchild who was now slightly puffed up in indignation.

"No." Cabbie growled.

" _Yes_." Was GT's amused retort.

"I remember that." Maru took another sip of his coffee. Damn, cold coffee was slagging terrible. Blade shifted idly on his gear.

"I remember you telling me about it."

GT shot the red chopper a smirk before returning his attention to the few smokejumpers that looked like they were about to ask a lot of very pointed questions. Namely Drip, who didn't seem to have the good sense to not be right in front of GT. This put his back to Cabbie, and Maru didn't think there was a bunker in existence that could protect the kid if his questioning ran aground from that position. Cabbie looked like he was going to head that whole conversation off at the pass, but GT wasn't going to let him have it.

"Long story short, my cousin was an entitled piece of scrap, may he rest in peace—"

"Or burn in hell." Try as he might, Maru couldn't resist. His failure, he'd own it.

"Shut up, punk. Anyhow, he neither took to the armed forces or got a job doing any real good, as did everyone else in the family, and instead made ridiculous amounts of money shuttling an oil tycoon around the country. It made him even more of a douche than he already was. So he flies out to visit me one day, because his boss was attending a conference at the lodge, and he clearly had no one else to bother. He spends all damn day here. It would have been an hour at most, but hell if he didn't think that Tracey was the finest thing he'd seen in the last six hours. I told him to go be a slag sucker to someone else's crew, but hell if he could hear anything that wasn't Tracey promising to rock his world. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together knew she was going to use actual rocks, and it would probably kill him. She would have done the tandem gene pool a favor. So here he is, being a scummy creep and Tracey is about to peel his face with her rotors, swear to Chrysler, and Cabbie rolls past and says—hell, what  _did_  you say to him?"

Cabbie shifted minutely, clearly weighing his stubborn denial that this event ever happened with relenting in the face of cold hard facts, and hence feeding the sordid details to jump team for use in possible future torment. He gave an airy chuff, and relaxed slightly into his gear.

"I told him not to waste his breath, as he'd need it to blow up his real date."

There were a wide variety of muffled snickers to outright laughter. Maru himself was squarely the latter, while Dusty tried valiantly to hide his grin for the sake of being polite. GT's smile could have cut diamonds.

"And you all can imagine what he had to think of that. Now, I've heard the argument for the 'money is power' thing, but if you have less sense then the Maker gave a dead tree, all your money makes a terrible shield when you pick a fight with a plane several times your size. Which he did. Luckily for him, Cabbie was man enough to teach him why he shouldn't do that."

"Holy hell." Blade had Cabbie fixed with a smirk. He got a deadpan, unamused stare in return, a remarkable about-face of expressions from just a few minutes ago. Something something instant karma, Maru was sure.

"That was the most interesting thing to happen all week." They had been talking about that for months. Slag, it was hard to drink coffee and laugh at the same time.

GT cackled.

"No kidding. If you were assigned to FOD after that, you were picking pieces of the aftermath out of the green space for days."

Cabbie sighed, resigned to having his dirtiest laundry aired in front of everyone.

"I was tired, she was tired, you might have actually killed him, and I couldn't stand his awful voice outside my hangar anymore. I'm not particularly proud of how that went down."

"I am. It was hilarious. Could you hear Theo laughing so hard he cried?"

"No, I couldn't, kind of how I couldn't hear reason, either. You took your damned sweet time breaking us up."

Blade uttered an indignant snort.

"And yet he couldn't  _wait_  to jump down Maru and I's throats when we had our… disagreement."

GT turned enough to rake over Blade and Maru out of the corner of his eye. The expression on his face could have been either mild irritation or dark amusement.

"I held— _hold_ —you both to a much higher standard than my errant, useless family member, who has never contributed anything to dignified society. One of you was chosen and trained by an old rig that I hold in very high esteem, because he's been doing this job for longer than anyone sitting on this tarmac right now, and the other one was handpicked to be groomed for the future title of CMO. You both had potential. I expected you to live up to it."

Well that was… different. Maru couldn't tell if they'd just been admonished or praised. Probably both; Gustav liked to give the carrot and the stick at the same time, if he were able.

Cabbie shifted his weight enough to draw attention.

"And I still got punished for mine, Blade."

"You did?"

GT rumbled in surprise.

"You did? When? What did I make you do?"

"You made me write the incident report for it."

"Oh, I remember now. You had to do it twice, because the first time you were still stricken with the anger-shakes, and I couldn't read your damned writing, so I made you fill it out all over again the next morning."

Dynamite was still side-eyeing Cabbie.

"Still can't believe you beat somebody up. I've never seen you go past acute irritation."

"And, if I have my say, you never will."

"Don't get dull on me now, Cabbie." Maru had always wondered if wearing that smirk for such a long time ever hurt GT's face.

"Your dull is what I call being reasonable. Which I don't always have time for anyways, since I've been shackled with five insane young bruisers whom are both quiet-impaired and have ground my payload to gravel years ago."

" _Five_  bruisers?" And GT fixed Dynamite with an appraising stare that, under any other circumstances, would have been to the immense and immediate life safety of the person making it. As it stood, there was some uncomfortable shifting amongst the smokejumpers as a unit, and they gave their squad captain a collection of worried looks. It was hardly the first time her small size and light build had come under fire on a team that had traditionally been held only by earthmovers, and where the next lightest person weighed in at three tons. Cabbie regarded GT with a neutral stare, but it was probably no accident that he was still allowing the smokejumpers to take shelter under his wings.

To her credit, Dynamite met his gaze as firmly as she dared, easy smirk in place.

"My size concentrates my awesomeness into more easily manageable portions. If I were any larger, it would overwhelm the unworthy."

There was a moment of silence as GT blinked, and Maru watched as his face split into one of those massive, razor-edged smiles that showed all his teeth, and he laughed, long and hard. It was a surprising enough reaction that Windlifter quirked a brow.

And then GT gave her the rare, much-coveted Nod of Approval.

"And  _that's_  why you got Smoker's job."

You could now add Dynamite to the list of people who impressed GT without having to get raked over the coals first. Lucky girl.

GT turned all the way back around to face Blade and Maru again, previous conversation immediately dismissed.

"On the topic of jobs,  _what the hell_  did you brats let happen to my park?"

* * *

Blade snuffed a sigh as he rolled slowly towards the med bay. The smokejumpers had split a while ago for evening chores (the only one of note was that Blackout had pulled dinner duty, which was likely to be as eventful as usual), and Cabbie was back over under his canopy netting, idly doing who knew what. Blade and Windlifter had just spent almost an hour pouring over the incident map with GT. It had been… dare he say, fun? Fun-ish, if anyone asked. There has been a loud "oh  _fuck!_ " once the tandem had seen the incident notes sprawled all over Blade's space, shortly followed by Maru's gasping peals of laughter that could be heard from one end of the airstrip to the other. Blade was going to bury the tug in the reports and leave him there.

GT's attempt to figure out how fire containment had been allowed to disintegrate so badly had led to a surprisingly therapeutic rant from Blade about how the park super had been giving them the shaft for the last several years. The Vertol hissed Blade told him that they were still in the process of trying to recover eighty percent of their budget back from the twisting nether, and Blade could only speculate how it would have been handled if GT had still held the reins when Cad transferred in. Would it have been any different? Spinner still would have had rank over fire services, and GT could only yell and snap so much before someone got bureaucratic with him. The same had happened to Blade; he could only protest so much before Cad stopped listening and just signed the orders anyways.

Of course, with GT, there was always the slight possibility of murder.

Actually, it was probably a good thing that GT had retired when he did, because his explosive temper plus Avalanche's violent dislike of Cad Spinner would have possibly led to some truly horrific things. Cad was enough to make sane people crazy; he could make crazy people hysterical.

Blade could feel his ampullae prickle off Gustav's field, while Windlifter's fell away as he angled his nose towards the main hangar. Blade could hear Maru muttering in the shop, which solidified into some very inventive cursing as Blade poked his prow inside. GT was not far behind.

"What's broken this time?"

Maru looked up, and set a large box aside with a grunt.

"Nothing, surprisingly. Just doing inventory. Between you and Dusty, so close together, I need a restock of several different materials. I used enough parts on the two of you to build Patch a second tower."

"I'm  _sure_."

"You're allowed to be sarcastic when you see the amount of hoses I went through to keep you from bleeding to death, never mind him."

GT idly regarded both of them as he looked around the garage.

"How in the hell did you guys end up with a racing superstar on your roster anyhow?"

Blade couldn't quite kill a smirk. It did seem to be a recurring thing on this base, didn't it? He wondered, in the hopefully distant future when he decided that he'd finally done enough to atone for his lack of action, who the base would hire next from the limelight. He quirked a brow at GT.

"The same way you got shackled with me."

A snort.

"Someone from your past sent him your way, huh?"

"If by 'someone from my past', you mean Mayday, then yes. He did."

GT blinked.

"Seriously?" Blade just nodded. "Damn, I have no idea what kind of life that old rig is leading, but if he keeps sending famous people out to work the line, you'll never get rid of the paparazzi."

Maru looked over from where he was placing boxes back on the shelves.

"I'm actually surprised we haven't found any of them skulking in the trees yet."

"The jumpers spend time out there. I'm sure they're a deterrent." Blade was thankful for that, at least. He was sure that the last thing the paparazzi wanted to see was a crew of brawny twenty-thirty somethings who were less than inclined to let them any further onto the base without express permission from a superior. His brain supplied him with a scenario where someone tried to maneuver around Dynamite and Avalanche, and it made him want to smile. Yeah right, good luck.

"I'm sure if Dipper caught wind, she'd be a bigger deterrent." Maru leveled a look at Blade. "You  _are_  watching her, right?"

"Like a damned hawk. Champ's too nice to say anything about it, but he shouldn't have to for her to get off his back. It's not a conversation I want to have, but I may just have to bite the bullet and save us all some aggravation." Blade gave an amused snort. "Unless this old bastard wants to come out of retirement for fifteen minutes to do us all a favor."

To Blade's surprise, the old chopper didn't take the bait. In fact, it was acutely silent beside him.

"GT?"

Gustav wasn't even looking in Blade's direction. He had is eyes pinned to the Wall, meandering slowly over the names and faces there. Theodor and Lucas. Marvin. Humphrey. Two lost on his watch, two on Blade's. Blade bit his cheek.  _Three_ , if you counted Nick. The signed, framed photo in the corner of the Wall didn't go unnoticed by the old tandem. It wasn't his first time seeing it; Blade had put it there upon his promotion, and GT had caught a glimpse when he came back for Lucas' memorial. He hadn't said anything then. Blade had never told him, really, what happened, but that had been contemporary news back then; he'd never had to. Acerbic old crankshaft had been able to figure it out the painful in and outs all on his own, and never gave Blade any particular guff about it. For which the Agusta was  _exceedingly_  grateful.

After a short while, the Vertol let out an airy sound that both Blade and Maru might have pegged as a sigh if they didn't know whom it came out of.

"At twenty percent of operating funds, chained to a newbie, and bulkheaded by an incompetent little slagger of a super." More silence as GT rolled his tongue around in his mouth. "Anything lost on the line?"

"Other than the damage myself and Champ, nothing. Well, maybe the kid's innocence, too."

Somewhere behind him, Maru cackled.

"That is a  _terrible_  choice of words, Blade."

"And you need to sweep that gutter mind of yours again." Please, for his sanity.

Still nothing but a soft grunt from Gustav.

"This could have been the biggest public safety disaster to happen inside a national park. Almost was. Given the circumstances, it's a miracle you didn't lose any civilians."

"We almost did. Fortunately, Blade and the kid pulled a save right out of their afts at the last minute. The crew got the entry road uncorked, and the jumpers and the lodge engine were able to get everybody through that damned tiny gate with no real injuries."

That was just enough to pull at Gustav's attention, and he looked back at Maru.

"There's an engine at the lodge, now?"

"Yeah. Cad's one good decision was to hire Pulaski. Thank the universe he just bought him off of county fire instead of hiring some fresh upstart greenhorn with no real experience, or everyone in the park would have been boned."

Gustav gave a soft hum, and went back to eyeing the Wall.

Blade traded glances with Maru. They did come out of that all right, all things considered. Conditions may have had two tires down the scrapper, but it could have ended far worse, for more people than just Blade and Dusty. A perfect storm of both exceedingly bad luck, drought conditions, and incredible incompetence, and then they somehow still managed to salvage the day.

Not "somehow." They  _knew_  how; Dusty aside, they'd been training for a situation like this for years, decades for at least half of the base. Their fortune was the end result of hard work, solid conditioning, and pure stubbornness. And they could do it all over again tomorrow, if they had to. Please, sweet Maker,  _no_ , but they could. For not the first time in the last couple weeks, Blade found himself fortunate that he had ended up with solid, dependable crewmates that could bust their afts on a campaign fire for days on end, get twenty-four hours rest, and then go do it all again. Sure, some of the younger ones had habits that made him feel older faster, but things started moving and shaking when they were able to harness that boundless energy towards something constructive. He had discovered, years ago, that their competence gave him incredible peace of mind; it allowed him turn his attention to more pressing matters, knowing that everyone else was squarely in control on their own business. It let him put his constant, driving controlling tendencies to bed. Ish.

If he were ever inclined to utterly ruin his dry spell, it would be to heartily drink to that.

There was another snort from GT, laced with mild amusement.

"You kids did a good job."

It took Blade a moment to sift the words from his own internal dialogue and process them properly.

All he came up with was  _huh?_

The old tandem turned from the Wall, letting Blade and Maru take his stare together.

"Far less than ideal circumstances, and you still managed to get the job done. No-one is dead, not even yourselves, and your crew is still pretty lively. Yeah, the park got toasted to hell, but all things considered…" he shrugged his rotors, "pretty on point."

Blade blinked to clear the slackness in his face. A quick look confirmed that Maru's cognitive functions had gotten hung up as well, and it took a while before he managed to loosen his tongue back to its usual limber sarcasm.

"Well,  _that_ was the last thing I expected to hear today." Well mostly. He still looked like he was scrambling to find an appropriately cynical response. Blade didn't blame him. "I can die happy now."

To even more surprise, Gustav didn't fall on Maru's momentary lapse of guarded acerbity like arctic cats on prey.

"Yeah. I probably never made it very clear years ago."

"Are… are you apologizing?"

"Hell no. I don't have many regrets in my life; not how I chose to live, not how I ran my base, not how I trained either one of you," a pointed look between both chopper and tug, "and not to whom I passed the torch when my time was up."

Blade had suspected. The older he got, the more he could rationalize everything the old Vertol had run him through. Oh, when he was young and hot under the plating and had something to prove to himself, it seemed overly ruthless. Especially after the uneasy first few weeks knowing Maru had violently boiled over, it seemed like the old chief was always on his aft for something unnecessary. Eventually he had accepted that, on some level, the hefty chopper wanted them to succeed, or he would have dumped them both on the curb and forgotten about them. But he kept them around, let them build their careers, and the only price to pay was the constant, blazing scrutiny that came with proving their worth. Still, it felt surprisingly nice to actually  _hear_  it, all these years later.

"Finally admitting that you like us, hm?"

"Dammit, Blade, if I didn't like either of you, I wouldn't have wasted my time on you." A tiny version of his usual smirk. "I figured you knew."

"Yeah, I think we did. The price of your command style, we figured." Blade matched his toothy smirk with one of his own. "I gotta say I like my style better, though."

"Of course you do. Everyone likes their way better. Whatever works for you."

"What happened to 'it's my way or it's the wrong way'?"

"You were a low level scrub, and I was chief. The chief's way is always the right way. Then it was mine. Now, it's yours."

"GT admitted that Blade is right. I am going to remember this day forever." Maru made a feint towards his calendar.

"Such cheek."

"I am still pretty cheeky, yes."

Blade's grin tempered a bit as he rolled Gustav's words around in his head. The praise felt… somewhat unwarranted. Like just another fire season, but with a few more bad rolls of the dice.

"It doesn't feel like we did anything particularly extraordinary. Sure, conditions could have been better, but  _every_  fire department has their hang-ups somewhere. We're fortunate that our budget issues haven't cut into our staffing. I'm pretty sure we would all still be doing this job for free if we had to. We just had to put our adult tires and get to it." An old phrase that GT had favored, and Blade had taken to heart—and Maru practically lived by—sprang immediately to mind. "'Improvise, adapt, and overcome.'"

"'Improvise, adapt, and overcome.'" GT gave a slow nod. "Glad to see you remember some of the slag I told you."

Blade snickered. He didn't bother to stuff this one.

"We remember  _everything_. We plan to spill it all when we have to give your eulogy."

There was a rumbling snarl that carried a lot less heat than it usually did.

"The hell you will be speaking at my funeral. I'll see to that."

"You'll be  _dead._  Good luck keeping us out."

Maru grinned fit to injure his own face. There had been a lot of that this evening.

"Here, we'll even help you plan your memorial. It'll be fun! We can talk over dinner, if you feel like staying."

"And wait for you to poison me? How stupid do you think I am?" He may have said the words, but the Vertol backed out of the garage and turned his prow slowly towards the main hangar. Oh, this should be good.

"You stir poison into your soft, old man porridge every day. Besides, at your age, we'll have better luck just being patient." Maru was practically rubbing his tines together.

"You can patiently sit while I tell your crew what terrible scamps you were back in the day." This was the problem with threatening GT; he had dirt on everyone from Patch's hiring on back, truckfulls of it, and a memory like a steel trap.

"Let's see if you're able to do more than curse while eating." Maru made a slight detour in his roll to dig his forks into a cabinet. Blade had a right good idea what he was after.

"I do both on a regular basis."

 _No kidding_.

"Yeah, but not from around Blackout's cooking." Maru shot Blade a look, tines still buried in stuff. "He is still on shift for dinner tonight, yeah?"

"That's where he is right now."

GT gave a distasteful wince.

"That bad, huh?"

"Oh, it's  _good,_  but he seasons like the apocalypse is coming."

Blade grunted in affirmation. Never had he had food that was both good and almost painful to eat. Poor Avalanche had just about died; messed that kid's systems up for  _days._  They had convinced Blackout to turn the dial down, just a bit, for everyone's health. Only Dynamite had been able to handle the stuff without any kind of complaint. And, of course, no one ever knew what the hell Windlifter thought.

"The first time I started my engines with his culinary 'expertise' running through my lines, swear to Chrysler, flames came out of my exhaust." Blade had almost actually checked to make sure he wasn't on fire.

GT's lip curled back into his characteristic lopsided Challenge Accepted grin.

"Sounds good. Can't be hotter than the food in hell."

Blade shrugged.

"I suppose, but don't be disappointed when we cannot garnish your portion with distilled virgin souls."

"You are never going to come off that, aren't you?"

"Not in the foreseeable future, nope."

"Tch, stubborn punk. Hey Windlifter! Get out here and tell your chief that I don't eat souls. And don't turn this into one of your damned semantic arguments where you substitute 'eat' for 'absorption,' or whatever."

Blade snorted as he followed lazily along. Maru came up beside him, clutching something that Blade would always deny was the Polaroid camera.

It was a good idea, though.

Tonight was going to be an excellent night to document some long-coming vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it has been a long time, hasn't it? This chapter has been in the works for... a very long time, and I cannot even fully explain to you how recalcitrant Chief Vortex was being throughout the whole thing. It was hard to balance his tendency to absolutely take over with giving uptime to the people who needed it. Ah well.
> 
> Typos, I know they're in here.
> 
> Words!
> 
> "Improvise, adapt, and overcome." My Lt in the academy has this as his favorite phrase. I figured it was appropriate. :3


	30. War Stories - Smokejumpers III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooooieee! It's been a fat minute, hasn't it peeps? I'm hardly dead, just very, very busy, and this was cranked out in the brief reprieve that I have. I'm hoping to work back into it during winter break, so more is planned.

Blade should have known that the jump team would turn a simple task like “repaint the storage sheds because it hasn’t been done in years” into some manner of messy party.

Correction: Pinecone and Drip were painting the sheds, the others (having helped Maru shore up the roof prior to this project) were instead making right nuisances of themselves. Dynamite was not so much contributing to the problem, per say, but she sure wasn’t stopping it, either. He should have known, really, because the sanctioned use of paint by the smokejumpers had sent Cabbie “fleeing” for his hangar, only sticking his nose out to snarl defensively at anyone who ambled by. Big guy was taking no chances.

Also, Pinecone and Drip (and Maru) had laid down _far_ more protective tarp than Blade thought they needed. Turns out, they had needed close to three times as much.

Blade knew the shenanigans were starting when there was a short, sharp shriek from across the base. A quick check out his window drew his attention to the sheds, where Pinecone was sporting a new broad, wet, very-much-not-accidental stripe of grey paint across her canopy and lights. The culprit was not far away at all, laughing as if he had not had the chance to do so in years. He was also still holding the paint roller in his grapple.

It was a good thing Drip’s reflexes were pretty sharp, because he closed his mouth just fast enough to keep the paint out as Pinecone lashed back immediately. He also tried to back out of her reach, but her telescopic boom made that quite impossible. He gasped and sputtered, but Blade could still see the grin from his hangar. And then they were both back to laughing.

Blade snorted. Well, this was what the tarp was for. And power washers. He was reflexively displeased that they were wasting paint, but the fact that Jammer had started returning their pilfered budget was the reason they were able to do this kind of routine building maintenance in the first place. Blade would let them have their fun, harmless as it was.

It grew more vigorous, though, and soon they were parrying each other’s wet, dripping paint rollers. Drip pushed, and Pinecone pushed back. The only person on the jump team that outweighed Pinecone was Avalanche (obviously, this also did not include Cabbie), but Drip’s treads provided him enough grip to hold his own. The two of them were going to tear the hell out of that tarp, though.

And then the rest of their team opted to be Decidedly Not Helpful.

It started with Blackout looking at Drip with mock derision and yelling, “Hermanito, you’re a terrible painter! You missed, like, hella spots.” And he gestured to Pinecone, and Blade had to assume that he was referring to her lack of grey paint on the rest of her body. Drip managed a quick lunge in response, able to make it past Pinecone’s defenses just fast enough to blitz a thick swath of paint across her face, to quite a bit of shrieking. Drip laughed, Blackout laughed, and Pinecone set down her roller for the bucket of water. The whole bucket. She heaved it at Drip with all the righteous vindication she could muster. It missed, badly, but she did manage to slop Blackout in the face with it. It was spectacular. He sat there and sputtered in shock as Drip about choked laughing.

Even from his hangar, Blade could see Avalanche grin, the Devil May Care one that implied that many kinds of calculated mischief were about to just erupt out of him, and subsequently everyone else.

“BOO! YOU’RE NOT GONNA TAKE THAT, ARE YOU?” And whether he had said that for Pinecone or Blackout was impossible to tell. Regardless, it had a singular, predictable result.

Namely the catastrophe called the Smokejumpers Have Paint, And It’s _Everywhere_.

Blade was tempted to go hide with Cabbie.

He was too late to make the trek, though, unless he folded his rotors and stalked through the woods to get there (and Blade was far past the point in his life where he would sneak around his own damned airbase), as the paint was already flying. Drip snagged Blackout and it was the two of them against Pinecone, up until the point where she used Avalanche as a body shield, and then the yelling and paint throwing increased threefold. Blade at least found some solace in the fact that the paint was grey, and not something more abominable. They would be cleaning all the splatters up before they dried, _or else_ , but at least any stray sprays would blend into the tarmac pretty good.

But there would be no sprays, and everything would be even cleaner than when they had started. He was determined to make sure of it.

At least they didn’t put the paint inside any balloons; Blade’s willingness to entertain their desire for some tomfoolery stopped right there at “paint projectiles.” Water was one thing; acrylic was quite another. Not that that singular caveat slowed them down whatsoever, and large, laden paint sponges served the “projectile” purpose well enough. Avalanche was more grey than red or yellow at this point, as was Drip, Pinecone was almost solid grey from her grapple almost to the base of her boom (which was even more impressive when it was fully extended), and Blackout had so far managed to protect his saw, at the cost of blocking hits with his back. It showed.

And somehow, in all that nonsense, they did manage to finish painting all the storage sheds. They looked nicer than they had in years.

The truce was called when tanks began to run low, and the collective cry of And Now We’re Hungry was the communal signal to pack it in and clean up. The giggling continued, and more than one person got sprayed with the hose (and Blackout finally got Pinecone back for the bucket of water to the face), but tarps and tools were washed and stored, extra paint was put away (and Blade was baffled as to how they had extra paint to begin with, until he saw some suspicious streaks of odd colors on Avalanche and Drip. Avalanche was sporting some shade of what Blade could only call chartreuse, and Drip had sprays of a deep, royal blue. Blade cast a confused glance at Dynamite, safely under Windlifter’s rotors at just enough distance to keep herself safe, and all she did was shrug. She wasn’t worried about it, but that didn’t really relieve Blade’s apprehension in the least. No one seemed to know where those colors even came from; the jumpers sure weren’t painting the sheds with them, and after pondering it for a minute Blade was confident that he really didn’t want to know.

Every single one of the jump team bar Dynamite was late for dinner that evening, as Blade and Maru both refused to allow them to track paint into the main hangar, and Cabbie wouldn’t even sit close to them on the scant possibility that they would deliberately rub paint off of themselves and onto him; this was not a completely unfounded fear.

Of course, that just made the power washer the next area to suffer the smokejumpers’ attentions. Blade couldn’t tell who threw it, but someone finally had the bearings to tag Dynamite with a soapy, soggy sponge; everyone on the base heard her shrill, sharp screech to prove it. And then there was laughter, and more yelling, and every so often a sponge would come rocketing out of the washers. Those were power washers, they didn’t need sponges, certainly none of the aircraft used them, but Blade did not think he should make a habit out of prohibiting otherwise innocent items on the off chance they _might_ become weaponized projectiles.

But really, this was PPA’s jump team; anything they could fill with water was a potential plaything.

At the very least, every last smokejumper was _immaculate_ when they came out. Almost parade worthy, save only a coat of wax. Also tired and happy, which Blade could live with as it meant they would all be ready to sleep by sack-out.

And the sheds got painted. A win-win, really.

Dinner was the usual discourse and cacophony, and even those not immediately privy to the finer details of the paint war got a play-by-play (“You got paint in my eyes!” “Well, then close your eyes when I throw a sponge at your face. Beside, you got paint in my _mouth._ ” “Then _close your mouth when I throw a sponge at your face!_ ” “Touché.”), which Blade considered far more entertaining to hear about than participate in. Cabbie, once again safe from the sheer amount of lark that had been prevalent all afternoon, pretended to ignore them as they huddled up under his wings to keep giggling and poking gently at one another.

Once the kitchen was clean, they all rumbled slowly off to their hanger; if Blade didn’t have a dislike of making even half-thought verbal bets on this base due to certain parties and their ability to rob people during said bets, he would insist that the jump team would be peacefully asleep by ten.

He would have lost.

At about nine forty-five, just as he was leaving Maru’s bay for his own, someone was rolling quietly across the tarmac. ‘Quietly” being open to interpretation, as even the low-gear purrs of the jumpers’ motors made some noise. Just Drip, alone, and looking somewhat sleepy as he made his way back towards the team’s hangar. Not alarming by itself, but he was clutching something in his claw.

Blade felt his eyes narrow sharply; dark or not, he recognized a wet sponge when he saw one. Drip froze once Blade pinned him with a look, glancing down at his claw and then back up at Blade.

Clearly being sleepy stopped nothing at all. He cocked a brow. Drip gave him a grin that was both confident and not.

“That had better be to clean up something that spilled in the hangar.” He gave it a thought, and then added, “whatever spilled better also not be against regulations.”

Drip’s smile faltered only slightly.  
  
“Um…no?”

That was a supremely unhelpful answer.

“To which?”  
  
“Both?”

It had been a rather easy, relaxed day, so Blade was still farther from a headache than this sort of exchange would normally put him. Thank the Maker.

“Drip, sack-out is in fifteen minutes.”

“I know, boss.” And his grin firmed back up, widening. “It doesn’t take me fifteen minutes to throw a sponge.”

The headache was still a ways away, so Blade took a deep breath and tried to be both firm and patient about what could only be the worst possible thing to happen in the jumper space at bed time.

“Drip, no.”

“Please?”  
  
“Absolutely not.”

“Have you ever heard Blackout’s voice jump two octaves?” Drip was giving him a look that told him at least how funny _he_ thought it was. “I’ve had this sponge in the freezer for a couple minutes, so it is really, really cold. Not frozen, just… slushy.”

Blade wanted no part of this whatsoever. But he was in a relatively good mood, and Maru was nowhere near asleep, and it was, _technically_ , not yet lights out… 

“You now have thirteen minutes until that building needs to be _silent_.”

“Aye-aye, sir!” 

And he gave him a dazzling grin and took off for his hangar, and his sleepy, unsuspecting victim. Blade had almost made it to his deck when the yowling started. And the laughter. Blade sighed through his teeth. He really should have stopped him; this whole afternoon had, really, been Drip’s fault. He shouldn’t need one last hurrah before bed to amuse himself.

In the kid’s defense, Blackout’s high-pitched almost-wail was pretty amusing. And their building was quiet as the grave by 2200 on the nose. By Blade’s book, all’s well that ends well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaaay, chapter! I'm sorry this one is so short, especially after so long a wait. You all get to thank [Obsidian Jade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianJade/pseuds/ObsidianJade) for continuing to stay on my ass and make sure I hadn't died under the weight of my Overwatch muses, as well as for this prompt. I'm eyes-deep in my senior thesis, which is due in mid-December, so I'm hoping to be able to write far more regularly on all my stuff once I'm over that hump. So close. Too close. Eeeek. *panics*
> 
> Now unfortunately, we have a brief bit of unpleasant business to discuss. It has been brought to my attention that other authors have been using my stuff without giving me credit. Specifically, two authors (that I know of) have used what I wrote in chapter nine, which is Ryker's inspection of PPAA, in their own fanfic, almost word for word, without saying a thing about who wrote that dialogue in the first place. That ain't canon, guys; _I wrote that._ I didn't think I would have to tell people how Not Cool that is, but apparently I do. There is only one author on the face of the planet who has permission to use my stuff right now, and neither of these authors are her. I'm regarding this as the public warning for everyone. I don't want to get gross on people, but I'll get gross if this continues. Tag. It. Now. Don't think I won't check. If it gets corrected, we won't have to have this conversation again.
> 
> Now that that's out of the way, who thought Cars 3 was what Cars 2 should have been? That movie was so dope. Makes me hopeful for a Planes 3. :DDD
> 
> I am still long overdue getting Blackout his own chapter, he's the last crew member left. Otherwise, most of what's planned is unrepentant fluff. I hope you all like Team Friendship Fluff. And Ryker, because everyone here knows how much I love me some Ryker. XD
> 
> It's been a while, and I've had this looked over, but I'm sure the typo gnomes be a-lurkin'.


End file.
